


Cake and Other Sins

by Indybaggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Great British Bake Off RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Baking, Competition, Desire, Dessert & Sweets, Disability, Falling In Love, Food Issues, Food Kink, Food Sex, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Guilt, Incest, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Mycroft Feels, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Past Drug Use, Poisoning, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-05 18:19:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 100,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1827805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Sherlock and John meet as competing bakers on The Great British Bake Off. There’s intense baking, lush recipes and enticing food. Mycroft, guilt, past sins in chocolate and gingerbread. And love. That too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cakes (Sherlock)

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: dubious consent, food issues/disordered eating, incest, past drug use, underage sex.
> 
> Thanks go to my betas GentleMoirai and NEcumberbitch, and the wonderful Jie_Jie who inspired and encouraged my madness at every turn. <3

 

 

The Signature Bake

Sherlock walks into the Bake Off marquee, coat flapping behind him in the breeze, carrying wooden crates filled to the brim with ingredients and tools. 221b has been covered in flour and baking books for weeks. His homeless network has never been better fed, his bank account is nearing zero from racking up bulk delivery bills and Sherlock has baked everything from the most basic bread pudding to gourmet gold-leafed truffles. He is ready. 

He lowers the crates on the counter assigned to him, fourth row from the front, and starts unpacking his tools. Beakers, Erlenmeyer flasks, early nineteenth century moulding tools, delicate pastry brushes, engraved icing spatulas, Russian cutting knives, blowtorches in varying sizes- Sherlock had been insistent about bringing his own materials to work with. He’d been surprised when the organisation agreed: being able to see the gluten strands through a microscope is going to be an invaluable advantage. 

A cameraman sets up to film them all dutifully. There are more people entering the large tent, and with every new face the tension builds slightly. Some people are fidgeting, there’s nervous laughter, some timid introductions. 

Sherlock glances at everyone’s hands as they walk past. There’s some talent here, judging by their calluses. He has researched everyone in advance of course, tried to classify their strengths and weaknesses, but it’s difficult with amateur bakers since none of them have much of a track record. He has only rarely had a chance to observe others baking live, and he has to admit that he’s a little curious. Some are looking his way too, a woman with a brown ponytail has been eyeing him from the moment he walked in. 

Sherlock asks, “Molly, is it?” 

She startles and nearly topples her basket of eggs, but her smile is genuine, “Hello, um, Sherlock, right? That’s what they said? What an uncommon name, or well, I mean, it’s nice, it suits you.” 

“Pleasure.” Unpacking done, Sherlock takes off his coat, folds it and puts it underneath his counter. 

“You have such ah, specific tools.” Her eyes scan his bench and widen. “Is that a _riding crop_?” 

“Helps to beat the dough into submission.” Sherlock’s being serious, obviously, but she laughs and flushes slightly. 

In front of Molly there’s a man setting up with a large and friendly face, laughter lines, the hands of a lecturer. He turns around at Molly’s introduction. “Hello, I’m Mike.” 

Sherlock has already deleted him off the list of potential finalists, but nods at him, “Sherlock”.

“And I’m Molly, hi, exciting, isn’t it! What are you baking today?” 

Sherlock tunes them out as the sides of the tent bulge and straighten out with a gust of wind. It’s chilly for mid-June. Wet. They’re in the middle of a field and the marquee isn’t insulated at all. Cool temperatures, rain, barometric pressure, it’s all going to feature into baking times and Sherlock has never baked outside the confines of a kitchen. He cuts down on a faint thread of worry.

Behind him is Anderson, lining up vegetable oil and cupcake tins. Sally, laying out piping bags, and Angelo, putting a hunk of mozzarella cheese into the fridge. Sherlock looks them over. They might have certain skills or technique, sure, but none of them will have his palate, his eye for detail, his skill at combining flavours. He doubts that any of them have even noticed the temperature.

The room falls silent as Mrs. Hudson walks in, presenter and judge of the Bake Off, renowned for her cookbooks and baking recipes. Incidentally, also Sherlock’s landlady. 

She winks as she passes them by and Molly utters a small but impressed “Oh!” 

Right behind Mrs. Hudson is the second judge, Greg Lestrade, a master baker with over twenty years of experience in the business. Sherlock has never met him, but from what he can tell his stellar reputation seems to be justified. 

The production assistant gives a sign and everybody stands up a little straighter. 

There’s a countdown, and the camera lights turn red. “Welcome bakers! The first challenge is the signature bake.” Lestrade sounds professional, although a little forced. He’s not used to being in the spotlight, Sherlock thinks. 

“This one is meant to test the home baker’s creativity and individual style. You can pick any recipe you want, something that’s been handed down through your family for generations or just something that you nicked from a tearoom, but bake a cake that means something to you, that will tell us who you are. ” 

Sherlock can see Molly wringing her hands. Henry up front is swaying dangerously, sweat appearing on his brow. Mike’s carefully written down recipe is trembling as he holds it. 

Mrs. Hudson however smiles into the camera as at ease as if she were sitting in her own kitchen. “All right, dears, on your marks...”

Sherlock takes his apron from the counter. It’s white and perfectly pressed. Right then.

“...get set...”

He pulls the apron strap over his head, ties it in the back and runs his hands down to get the creases out. Into battle. 

“...bake!”

Sherlock gets going immediately, ambidextrously pours water into a bowl and turns the oven on, plugs in the mixer, then starts measuring flour. He is going to _win_.

 

\---

 

Sherlock bakes his first cake when he is six. As an experiment, of course. 

The eggs have been out in the sun for a week. The cake is only half-baked, both on purpose and because he’s not exactly sure of the right oven temperature. It all goes to plan, Sherlock only burns himself a little and, despite how horribly un-cakelike it looks when it’s done Mycroft, then thirteen, is charmed enough by his efforts to try a piece. 

Sherlock spends the whole evening sitting in front of Mycroft’s bedroom door, waiting for him to get sick. And when he finally does and come out of his room at a slight run Sherlock follows him and watches closely as Mycroft vomits into the toilet. 

Mycroft kicks him out for the diarrhoea part, but Sherlock can hear enough through the door. It’s a success. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock has imagined a pecan and dark chocolate cake for his first challenge today, with some added cardamom seeds for flavour, and a touch of orange zest for acidity and colour. It’s his own recipe, obviously, the taste layered, sophisticated and original. He has a fabricated story prepared of how it reminds him of his childhood travels to Asia combined with more traditional English flavours but he is relieved when no one asks him to tell it. He’d much rather just focus on baking. 

Mrs. Hudson is obviously holding back, throwing him a comforting smile whenever she thinks no one is looking (they are) and she lets Lestrade do the first walk-through past Sherlock’s counter. 

Sherlock is busy opening the green cardamom pods, trying to get the seeds out of them swiftly. If not done expertly, they lose some of their specific taste. Lestrade comes over and heedlessly leans on his counter. “Cardamom seeds, hmmm.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. 

“Good pods too, costly.” They were, but Lestrade does not need to know that. Sherlock traded an elderly Indian woman for them to find out who had been spraying graffiti on her storefront (kids from the local elementary school, boring). 

“I have never seen this method being used to open the pods, looks interesting.” Sherlock is using a sharp letter opener so he can switch easily between the cutting and the pulverising. Not specifically designed for this, but he had it lying around 221b and it seems to work well enough.

“Lovely taste though, very strong, very special. I’m definitely looking forward to this one.” Lestrade smiles supportively. Sherlock ignores him, he doesn’t need his encouragement, it’s only the tasting that will matter. He scrapes the pulverised seeds into his cake mixture, and starts whisking some egg whites in a metal bowl by hand, which makes a lovely scraping noise. 

Lestrade wisely leaves to bother Molly, who sounds overjoyed at the chance to ask for his opinion. 

Sherlock whisks the egg whites until peaked, then scans the room to see how the others are doing. Henry is sitting down on a hastily procured chair, pale and shakily sipping from a water bottle, a production assistant and one of the other contestants, John, the army doctor, leaning over him. He must have missed the faint. Pity. 

Mike has made a mess already, clouds of flour all over the carpeted floor, bits of butter spread around his counter, but his tea loaf seems about ready to go into the oven. Molly has done some preparation for her decorations but her actual cake seems mostly conceptual at this point. Partly hidden in front of Mike there is Jim, who is doing something with passion fruit and pistachios. Sally is busy pouring several bowls of pink-coloured batter into trays. It looks hideous. 

When Sherlock’s mixture is finished resting he adds shredded pecans and stirs in the egg whites. Then uses tongs to hold his dark Belgian chocolate up in the air, and grabs a blowtorch. A Bain-marie takes forever. He sees some of the others throwing him incredulous glances as he starts melting chocolate over an antique Bohemian measuring cup by open flame, the cameraman closest to him immediately zooming in. Sherlock pretends he doesn’t notice. 

Mike has started making marmalade, the smell sharp and sweet. Behind Henry there is a Chinese woman, Soo Lin, but Sherlock can’t tell what she is doing except that she has a bag of tea leaves spread over her counter. John seems to be making up for lost time, staring straight ahead while he mixes his batter, everything about him saying ‘I’ve got this under control.’

Chocolate melted and added to the mixture, Sherlock puts a thermometer inside his oven to check the temperature. He never trusts the actual dials to be correct, most ovens run up to 25 degrees off- and puts it all level into the oven. There. Exactly on schedule. 

He spends most of the interlaying hour on his knees in front of the oven, he’s never worked with this one before and it’s raining outside now, so he doesn’t want to take any chances. He calculates the point when the cake has to be removed to the second by the amount of moisture leaving the baking tray in the form of bubbles and steam. Sherlock’s not foolish enough to open the oven to check on the cake’s rise, although he can hear that that’s exactly what most of the others are doing. Idiots. Letting in the cold air will make a cake droop near-instantly. 

His own creation is an absolute delight of course, Sherlock knows it as soon as he takes the cake out. He carefully listens for singing, the cake makes a soft sound when it is still wet inside. He pokes the sides to test the wobbliness. He bends down over it and inhales deeply. Perfect. 

He lets it cool down before decorating, but even still he is done a good ten minutes before everyone else. Molly is still sitting in front of her oven, silently begging her cake to bake faster. Mike’s tea loaf has come out and is cooling now but it has sunk dramatically in the middle. Sally is silently cursing “fuck, godfucking fuck, fuck” while wiping icing off her shaking hands. Henry tells the camera that he had to change his plans because of the time he lost but that he’s still somewhat optimistic. Anderson’s attacking his cupcake tins with a knife because they refuse to come out. Angelo’s cake hasn’t set, the melted cheese sadly drooping from the sides. 

Most everyone is still frantically running through the most basic of steps, and Sherlock feels vindicated in his assessment that they’re all truly amateurs. Except for... John. He has a round, two layered sponge cake with a light colour filling standing at the end of his completely clean and empty counter. No decoration besides a light sprinkling of sugar on top, but it doesn’t need it. The bake is an even gold and absolutely perfect, there would be no reason to hide it under icing. Interesting that he seems to be fully comfortable doing nothing else to it though, Sherlock thinks. 

John sees him looking, eyes Sherlock’s cake and nods. 

Sherlock quickly looks away. 

 

\---

 

If asked Sherlock would never say, but it is one of his best childhood memories. To lie under those too-hot sweaty sheets with Mycroft, to be allowed to place his hand on Mycroft’s stomach and feel the still-present rumbles. To smell his sour breath, the remnants of stale sweat on his shirt, and to know that it was he who made him sick. 

In the months and years after that very first cake Mycroft learns to be wary of Sherlock’s baking of course, wisely so. But he is always willing to play along, to carefully taste and then deduce what Sherlock has baked inside. So Sherlock makes waffles and pies, biscuits and cupcakes with ingredients from the garden, from the garage, medications, poisons, everything interesting he can get his hands on. He spends days in the kitchen covered in eggs and icing sugar, pretending he’s a mad scientist or a pirate, about to outsmart his enemy. 

And they all- Dad, even Mummy- seem to think it’s adorable that he’s so fond of baking now, that it’s definitely preferable to Sherlock’s other interests (such as: digging up bird skeletons, stealing, dissecting animals, reading every science book he can get his hands on, general pyromania), it seems more normal, and Mummy even tells her friends that he’ll grow up to be a famous patisserier someday. 

She doesn’t know that he’s doing it all to poison Mycroft, of course, but Sherlock doesn’t think it’s wise to correct her. 

Mycroft is a very quiet vomiter.

 

\---

 

“And that’s it, time! Place your cakes at the end of your tables please.” 

Sherlock is pleased that no one besides John finished everything they had intended to do in the allotted time. Molly’s managed to place some beautifully sculpted marzipan doves and hearts on top of her cake, but the cake itself is definitely underbaked. Mike has slathered his tea loaf in marmalade in the hope of covering up the sunken middle but it is obvious even from where Sherlock is standing. It’s slightly pathetic really. 

Sally’s pink cake is piped very unevenly, Anderson’s cupcakes look as if they have been ripped out of their tins, Angelo’s savoury cake looks unappealingly bland, and even though he had a whole bowl of freshly cut herbs on his counter he never put them on. The ones more up front are harder to see from where Sherlock is standing: Jim seems to have done well on his passion fruit and pistachio experiment, Henry has a basic one layered sponge and Soo Lin a whole array of small green tea flavoured cupcakes. 

The judging is a surprisingly lengthy process. Now that he’s done Sherlock wants to hear what they think and hear it quickly, but instead it takes long boring minutes for the camera people to get the right shots, for both judges to taste and compare and take sips of water in between. 

They start from the front too, calling Soo Lin’s approach “well thought out”, and comment on the “original flavours”. Henry gets a little talk about what happened, why he was so nervous, how he was feeling now, yadayada, but when it comes down to it his cake it is too dry and plain. Mike’s tea loaf tastes all right, but it is too dense because it has sunk. Jim’s cake gets praise right of the bat, Sherlock hears “impressive technical ability to combine these flavours”, “delicious”, and “certainly a contender”. 

Molly gets told that while the decorations are lovely, the middle is raw and therefore her cake is inedible. John gets a lot of positive comments as well, “perfect golden brown colour”, Sherlock is inclined to grudgingly agree on that one, and “simple, but refined”. They call Angelo brave for being the only one to attempt a savoury cake, but sadly the taste and finish is not there. Sally gets a comment on why her piping has run so much -the cake was too warm still to decorate-, and Anderson gets possibly the worst critique of all, “flavourless”, and “misshapen”. 

And then finally, finally it’s Sherlock’s turn. 

Mrs. Hudson smiles, “Sherlock! You’ve had to wait the longest.” 

Lestrade walks up behind her and says, “Now, before we comment on your work, Martha has been telling me that you two know each other?” 

Sherlock nods, “Mrs. Hudson is my landlady.” 

“Well, aren’t you lucky, living with one of the most famous women in baking. Did you know this when you moved in?”

“No,” He lies, “It was a coincidence,” and drums his fingers on the counter while the cameramen film a slow circle around his cake. 

Eventually Mrs. Hudson takes pity on him and says “Well, let’s have a try then shall we Sherlock?” She slices carefully and yes, perfection, all the layers are neat and visible upon the first cut, the colours contrast pleasingly, the texture is just right, Sherlock has not made this one better, and he knows because he has made it seventeen times in the last week alone. 

“Hmmm,” Mrs. Hudson says, “Hmmm, this is good, I can taste the cardamom, very special, an unusual combination.” 

“A little bombastic.” Lestrade says. “Conflicting flavours, it overwhelms your palate, I think you tried to do too much. Nice try, but keep it simpler next time, yeah?” 

Sherlock takes a sharp breath. The man can’t be serious. He’s never had anybody say that about his work. Ever. 

“All right, good work everyone, we are going to deliberate, take a break for lunch, and when we return to the tent it is for the technical challenge!”

The other contestants mingle as soon as they cameras are turned off, but Sherlock is far too irritated to move. As far as he can tell Lestrade has not been bribed, nor was he faking or lying in any way. He tasted Sherlock’s cake and genuinely found it to be overcomplicated. Idiot. That man calls himself a professional? There are real French chefs who could not do what he did. Sherlock is just on his way to working himself up to quitting (and with the way Anderson is bragging to Sally behind him, he is going to go out in spectacular fashion by telling them all exactly what he thinks of them), when John shuffles over to his counter. 

He’s using a cane when walking. War injury, that much seems obvious. Sherlock looks him over and asks, “Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

John’s stance instantly becomes defensive. “Afghanistan. Why?”

He seems offended. Polite still though, keeping himself in check. Sherlock reaches out his hand. As he thought, John automatically takes it. “I’m Sherlock.” 

“John.” John looks slightly mollified. His eyes travel towards Sherlock’s pecan and dark chocolate cake, sliced now. 

Sherlock suddenly really wants to know whether _John_ will agree with Lestrade. John, who baked that perfect but simple-looking golden cake. He’s careful to make his tone appear casual. “Care to try a piece?”

“Yes. Yes, actually. Or does that fall under scoping out the competition?” John’s face seems very mobile, up close. His eyes are a warm brown. 

“No one here is competition to me.” Sherlock answers quickly, but he does think it’s true. He is better than everyone here. They just don’t know it yet. 

“Oh really?” John smiles, “That’s not what the judges said was it?” 

“They’re wrong, obviously.” Sherlock means it, but John seems amused. He takes a fork. 

John cuts off a generous piece for himself, and does the tasting of it justice. He chews slowly, face serious, he’s obviously savouring the flavours. Sherlock leans closer. 

And then John smiles, “Wow. Wow, this is really brilliant. My god, Sherlock, this is amazing.” There’s a little smear of chocolate visible on John’s tongue as he speaks. 

“Yes?” Sherlock asks, hating himself for the hopeful tone he can’t quite hide. 

“Yes, of course it is, the flavour is so rich, I can’t believe they didn’t give you a better critique. Have you even tasted it yet?”

John’s mouth would taste like it now. Sherlock blinks that thought away. “No, I don’t need to.”

“You don’t?” John licks his lips and digs back in for a second piece, without asking. 

“I know the ingredients and the way they are prepared, so I know what it tastes like.” Sherlock doesn’t like eating desserts that much. He never did. Never had to eat them himself, before. 

“Really?” John seems confused. He licks off his fork. 

Sherlock explains, “A base of multiple eggs, yolks and whites beaten separately for volume and home-sifted flour, unsalted butter browned on a low heat for the nutty taste. Bitter dark chocolate, green crushed cardamom seeds, oven-roasted pecans. The texture would be moist, crunchy, a slight acidity from the orange zest, is that what you tasted?” 

“Well yes, basically. Still, that’s… bizarre. I’ve never heard of a baker who won’t eat his own cakes. Hell, I might think something’s poisoned!” John grins at the joke he thinks he made. 

Sherlock blinks. It’s odd how that still stings. 

John hasn’t noticed. He seems happy, relaxed. Sherlock tries to school his face into something that might be interpreted as a smile, too. 

John leans a little towards the exit and says, still smiling, “So... lunch?” 

 

\---

 

By the time he is ten Sherlock has acquired an impressive array of baking skills. 

It’s solely for Mycroft, still. On the rare occasions that Sherlock needs something from Mycroft (like lying to Mummy) he drizzles tarts in honey, bakes dark, sticky chocolate brownies, makes hand-rolled truffles with decadent mango filling and brings them to Mycroft in bed, lies next to him and presses them to his mouth one by one until he gives in. 

But more often Sherlock bakes out of annoyance. Mycroft tends to be prickly, mean, _insufferable_ in his superior intelligence so those cakes Sherlock makes as dangerous as he can, imagines stuffing them into Mycroft’s face while baking. 

And eat them Mycroft does, every time. He’s well aware of what’s inside, of course. Mycroft can recognise most flavours by now so it’s a game of will, of little clues and deductions, one that gets only more intense over time between them. Mycroft always smells, dissects and then tastes slowly, drags it out until Sherlock’s entire body feels as if it’s vibrating with the tension of it, Mycroft’s sharp gaze on his. 

And once Mycroft gives him a clear summary of what’s inside it’s the release of a secret shared, a battle fought and it’s intoxicating. Sherlock can’t stop touching him then, strokes Mycroft’s stomach to feel if he’s having cramps, puts his head on Mycroft’s chest to listen for a heartbeat, presses his face to Mycroft’s to feel his breathing, smell his breath, holds him close while Mycroft pretends that it doesn’t please him to be right, too. 

It’s wonderful.

 

\---

 

The Technical Challenge

Sherlock eats lunch next to John, or more accurately watches John eat from the corner of his eye, his stomach doing an odd dance while John chats good-naturedly with the other contestants. Sherlock refuses to eat anything himself, he is much too wired for digesting. He can’t smoke either because it would interfere with his sense of smell so he slaps on a nicotine patch or three (John raises an eyebrow at that but doesn’t say anything), and jitters his leg, counts the stitches on the table cloth, plays with his knife, checks his phone again and again until they can go back to the tent. 

The weather is still overcast, clouds quickly moving over the Bake Off tent. 

Round two consists of a technical bake, meaning that they all get the same recipe to work with but they don’t know which one it will be in advance. The same basic ingredients, sugar, cream, eggs and flour, standing covered with a red-and-white checkered cloth on their counters. 

The recipes are lying face-down, although anyone could probably figure out what it says if they lean close. 

Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson take up position in front of the tent again, and Mrs. Hudson announces, “Your very first technical bake will be one of my recipes, it’s light as heaven, it’s magical, just put it out at a party and watch it disappear, it’s an Angel Food cake!”

Sherlock nods. He’s never been very fond of the lighter varieties of cake because the flavour is so even and one-dimensional, but it isn’t particularly difficult to achieve. He’s confident he can make one. Some people are visibly worried, namely Angelo who is mouthing “Angel Food? What is Angel Food?” but most of them seem to have baked, or at the very least eaten, one before. 

Lestrade says, “We are going to judge this bake blind, so we are not going to watch you prepare these, good luck!” and he and Mrs. Hudson wander off to another little tent outside while the production assistant says, “Ready, set, bake.”

Sherlock scans the recipe quickly. As he thought, it seems to be fairly straightforward. The key will be to preserve the lightness of the bake, which means folding instead of stirring and a careful hand, no overworking the mixture. 

Molly looks quite cheery, softly humming while sifting the flour and icing sugar, if having to guess he’d say this cake is one of her favourites. Angelo is still staring at the tin and the recipe with a confused look in his eyes. Most people have started quickly this time around though, probably eager to make up for earlier mistakes. Mike is already buttering his tin, and Henry is preparing his ingredients by arranging them on his counter in the order the recipe says to use them.

Sherlock starts by whisking his egg whites and the cream of tartar. Anderson behind him is making a mess already, and Sally appears to be looking at his technique and trying to replicate it. Sherlock shoots her an angry look but she pretends not to notice. 

He meticulously follows the recipe, and once everything is carefully folded together spoons it into the rounded tin, mindful to level the batter but not press on it too hard so not to lose the air inside, and places it into the oven. 

Molly is done right after Sherlock, and she turns around as soon as she has her cake in. “This one’s fun, isn’t it? I think I’m actually doing well.” She seems to have forgotten about her hesitancy to talk to him now that she’s really going. 

“You’ve made this before.” Sherlock says as he puts his water for the icing on. 

She gathers up her egg shells to throw away, wipes her counter and says, “Yes. Well, not that that means I think I’m going to win or anything. But I like Angel Food cake, don’t you?” 

Sherlock mumbles “No, not particularly.” and focuses on adding the right amounts of sugar and cream. He can see her looking back a couple times more while working but she doesn’t seem too bothered by his silence, instead chatting with Mike who, yes, loves these cakes and makes them for his kids often. 

An hour later everyone’s Angel Cakes are out of the oven and frosted to some degree. Sherlock has opted for a light striped pattern of icing, but most seem to just have smothered it on and hoped for the best. It’s rather entertaining to see how ten different bakers using the same ingredients and the same recipe still manage to turn out ten completely different cakes, he could probably deduce who made what just by looking at them. 

Anderson has overcompensated for his previous failure to get his cupcakes out of the tin and has used way too much butter this time, resulting in dark, greasy sides. Sally’s is overworked, smaller than the others and heavy. Angelo has managed a somewhat passable copy of an Angel Food cake, but the frosting on it looks lumpy. John’s looks okay, but it’s slightly underdone and the frosting runny. The colour in Soo Lin’s is off and she confesses to using less sugar than the recipe said. The contenders in Sherlock’s eye are his own, modestly frosted but sophisticated, Molly’s which is cheerfully decorated with powdered sugar and little stars, and Jim’s, which has gotten an impossible rise and looks large and airy. 

The judges cut the cakes through the middle, press on each one, turns them over to see the bottom, discuss bake and moisture, taste every one, discuss again, and then eventually -finally- announce the results. From worst to the best, in tenth place is Soo Lin, then Sally, Anderson, John, Angelo, Mike, and Henry. Sherlock comes third on the account of too little icing. Second is Jim, there were some air bubbles inside the cake when cut open. Which means the best is Molly, flushed with pride as she wins the first technical. 

Sherlock is annoyed but only somewhat. His cake was technically perfect, they gave the win to Molly only because she had spent extra time decorating and making it look ‘festive’, which is something he can do next time if he has to. If they want gaudy, childish, over the-top-type baking then he can compensate for that. 

The challenge finished, the others go explore the grounds and then to dinner. But Sherlock locks himself into the room they assigned him inside the castle and starts going over tomorrow’s bake in his mind. Let the others bother with their getting-to-know-you conversations, tomorrow Sherlock plans to be prepared. With what he knows of the oven he is working with, the general temperature in the tent, the time pressure and the judging process he strikes his entire plan and prepares to bake a completely different cake, one specifically designed to cater to the judges. Then sleeps for an hour or two, and is already wandering around the castle grounds at dawn. 

 

\---

 

Once Mycroft starts uni he stays away for weeks on end, and when he does come home he’s different. Distant. Even his eyes have become careful, careful not to look at Sherlock too much, careful to give him space. 

Which is wrong, of course, so every time Sherlock sees Mycroft he begs him to be allowed to come too, he says the rudest things he can think of, he cries and kicks and crawls into Mycroft’s bed at night and whispers into his skin, “You’re mine, you can’t go.” and then bites him until Mycroft pushes him off and locks the door. 

Still Mycroft looks past him. So Sherlock does the only thing he can think of: he bakes. 

Mycroft has suffered through the occasional bout of vomiting, diarrhoea, rashes, burns, even passed out briefly but usually he manages to guess what the ingredients are with stunning accuracy, which makes it all the more shocking when he comes down with a rare strand of botulism. 

Sherlock has baked in a large dose on purpose of course, he’d taken his rage and loneliness and hadn’t even concealed it very well. Mycroft must have known that it was a bad one, he must have tasted it. Still he ate, ate without Sherlock there and it leaves Sherlock livid on the urgent drive to the hospital, because these are not the rules, this is not what they _do_! Mycroft was never supposed to nearly die. 

Sherlock spends all night next to Mycroft’s hospital bed, refuses to be moved. He strengthens his resolve to skip as many school years as possible so that he will arrive at uni while Mycroft is still there. Eventually he lies down next to him and, in the dark, whispers his guilt into the hollow of his throat. Mycroft doesn’t respond but places a soft hand on his head. 

They found long-term liver damage as well. 

Mycroft tells them it’s from drinking. 

 

\---

 

The Showstopper Challenge

Sherlock gets some stares and smiles walking into the Bake Off tent with a large bouquet of wildflowers. 

Sherlock’s black leather loafers are soaked through, his socks are sopping wet, even the bottom of his trousers have mud caked to them, but he found what he was looking for. Despite the cool weather and the overly manicured gardens there were plenty of edible flowers blooming around the castle grounds. 

He puts the flowers in a beaker and awkwardly balances against the counter, then uses paper serviettes to remove some of the mud on his shoes. 

John tilts his head at him. _What on earth did you do?_

Sherlock rolls his eyes. He’s perfectly capable of walking through grass and soil and puddles. He just hadn’t prepared for it exactly. 

They only film him when he’s standing behind the counter anyway, so it’s not like it’s even relevant. 

He throws the serviettes away, separates his flowers and spreads them out on a tray with baking paper. Then washes his hands, scrubs under his nails, mindful that he’s been rooting around all kinds of greenery and dirt, and pulls his apron over his head just in time. The camera people have started setting up already, and they want a shot of the whole tent. 

Sherlock stands still for it obediently, already preparing for the bake in his head. They shine a portable light on Mrs. Hudson so that she can give the day’s opening speech while Lestrade looms sullenly behind her, and then they’re off. They have to bake a cake to impress, a centrepiece for a party or family event, and they have three and a half hours to do it in. 

Sherlock turns on the oven, the hot plate, plugs in the mixer, lines up his ingredients. But Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and their camera entourage are already making their way over to his counter. Sherlock pushes down on the frustration. How is he supposed to bake when people keep on bothering him! 

“Are those for a special someone then Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson smiles. 

For a moment Sherlock doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Then he wishes he would have thought to bring her some flowers, she’s fond of that kind of antiquated gesture. Although that might be perceived as trying to win the judges favour, so maybe not. 

“No, I picked them this morning, I am preparing a wildflower cake.” Sherlock observed their judging the day before carefully, as well as watched similar competitions and analysed the winners strategies. Using flowers will make him seem earnest, original, creative, he thought of it sometime past midnight. There is no way they are not going to reward him for this. 

“And you’re certain these are all edible?” Lestrade asks suspiciously, prodding the flowers, “They came from the gardens right, so no pesticides or anything?” 

“Well, he can wash them, can’t you?” Mrs. Hudson beams at him. She obviously likes the idea. 

“Of course,” Sherlock says quickly, “I have worked with plants, even poisonous ones, many times before.” He’s not exaggerating, but they probably don’t know that. Although Mrs. Hudson might, Sherlock has seen her leaf through his encyclopaedias of toxins and uncommon poisons more than once. 

“So you know what you’re doing?” Lestrade looks him up and down, “I suppose that’s comforting.” 

“Oh I’m sure we’ll like it dear.” Mrs. Hudson shushes Lestrade as she leads him on to Anderson’s workspace. Who is baking a strawberry chocolate cake. Perfectly boring that.

Three and a half hours seem like a long enough time but Sherlock knows he’ll have to be careful to get this one timed right. Despite his knowledge of plants he has only rarely baked with flowers for the aesthetics of it, and they have slowly started wilting from the moment he picked them. He has to keep them as fresh and damp as possible, some in the fridge and some at room temperature, but if he wants to use them at all a couple hours from now is already pushing it. 

He decided on the type of cake first, feeling inspired by the lighter, smooth style of cake from yesterday’s Angel Food cake he wants to go with a three tiered sponge cake, some honey and then a soft, sweet icing in between the layers with flower petals mixed in. One layer with the yellow dandelions, one with the blue corn flowers, and then the top layer with some of the more uncommon flowers, some fresh honey drizzled on as well to combat the natural bitterness. If they want simple, then this will be simple, beautiful to look at and easy to understand. 

Sherlock tries to listen to what the other bakers are planning while breaking his eggs, separating the egg whites from the yellow, dropping them in a bowl. He’s barely slept but he’s feeling focused. In control. He knows what to expect of this competition now, and he thinks he can do it. 

Molly is going for a two tiered “engagement cake” wrapped in white fondant, her eyes sparkling as she explains that it’s something that she might like at her own engagement party someday. Mrs. Hudson happily agrees and asks her to explain her rather traditional flavours and their meaning. Mike is making a winter coffee cake with an assortment of nuts and spices. Jim is attempting the very technical seven layered opera cake, to a lot of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from Mrs. Hudson. Soo Lin is trying to create a Chinese steamed sponge cake, glazed with lime and some herbs added to it. 

Sherlock gets his first two sponges into the oven, sets the timer so he can switch them two thirds through to ensure that they are evenly baked and starts working on his icing. He wants it to be much softer than the Angel Food cake’s icing, more lush, his will have vanilla, butter and cream whipped with sugar until it’s a smooth, thick layer between his layers of cake that will add moisture and taste to the sponge which naturally runs towards a dry finish. 

Angelo has put on a pot of coffee, the smell slowly drifting through the tent. 

Sherlock can see Henry working on a white chocolate and raspberry cake, a notable difference in his technique now that he seems a bit less nervous. A lot less nervous, in fact, a little slow. Sherlock looks at him. He seems positively Zen while slicing his raspberries. He must have taken something, maybe someone in the production has slipped him a valium, but that wouldn’t make sense because of the inherent TV value of a good faint… one of the other contestants then. 

Sherlock considers it as he whisks the icing, Mike, no, would have the access but wouldn’t steal. Molly, no. So John? Of course. He’d feel inclined to help, would have the pills prescribed by his own therapist but never takes them, doesn’t need them either. Sherlock looks at John, solid shoulders covered with a blue jumper today, apron neatly knotted on his back, hands perfectly steady. Sherlock briefly thinks of presenting with John a piece of the cake that he’s making right now. Maybe he’ll say it’s amazing again... 

 

\---

 

After a long week Mycroft comes home from the hospital, back to his old bedroom and Sherlock sneaks into his bed that night. Despite his recent illness Mycroft is heavy and solid, fat from eating a constant stream of sugar and butter and it’s the most comforting thing Sherlock can imagine. He reverently touches Mycroft’s round face, his double chin, runs his hands over his broad upper arms. He has put that flesh there. He has _created_ his brother. 

Sherlock lies down next to him, and holds on to the thick folds of Mycroft’s belly while Mycroft idly strokes his back. They’ve done this a million times before. Although less, lately. Mycroft doesn’t like to touch him that much anymore. 

When Sherlock trails his hand down, lower, into Mycroft’s pyjamas and finds him hard it’s something that he’s guessed at, a little. 

Mycroft moves away immediately so Sherlock puts his head on Mycroft’s chest and listens to the hurried thumping of his heart, the fastest he has ever heard it. He spreads his fingers over Mycroft’s hip, curiously traces the creases of his groin, then the crinkle of his pubes. He feels the tension in Mycroft’s muscles, the smoothness of his skin turn sweaty under his touch. Mycroft clears his throat. “Sherlock...”

Mycroft’s erection rises to meet him when he touches it, wet at the tip. It’s like a reflex. Sherlock rubs some of the wetness between his fingers and brings his hand up to smell it. It smells different than his own. When he licks it tastes different too, Sherlock feels it sit bitter on his tongue. He thinks about baking it into a cake. 

Mycroft’s breaths are ragged in the quiet. “Sherlock!” He sounds as if he might cry. He’s blushing so hard that Sherlock can feel the heat of it. The muscles in his thighs tense and quiver, and little beads of fluid are appearing on his penis so Sherlock leans down and experimentally licks them away.

Mycroft never really means no.

 

\---

 

Angelo’s humming a number by Queen under his breath while he prepares the mixture for his ladyfinger biscuits in the food processor. The coffee machine is prattling along. Sally is counting the drops of lemon concentrate she’s adding to her mix out loud. Soo Lin is juicing a large collection of limes. Molly is searching her cupboard for a rolling pin. Anderson is banging his tins when he puts them down on the counter, using the electric mixer, even _breathing_ loudly. 

Sherlock tries to ignore them all, but he can smell the burned cake and smoke behind him, hear Anderson’s frustrated opening and closing and opening and closing of the oven door. He can hear him mutter, "Why would that happen? Why does it rise like that and then collapse, it has never done that at home, something must be wrong with my oven, I bet it’s done on purpose, some of us get a bad oven.” 

And Sherlock can’t help himself, he walks the couple of steps behind Anderson’s counter and has a quick look into his disaster of an oven. There’s batter splattered everywhere and black smoke pouring out of it. 

“Your cake is rising, overflowing the tin and burning because you have added, I’d say, a full spoon of baking powder, two perhaps?” 

Anderson stares at him and then nods reluctantly.

“You need only half a teaspoon at most. You have a science degree, you should know this. Now shut up, you’re lowering the IQ of this entire tent.” 

Sherlock turns his back to check on his own oven, but he’s aware that everyone around must have heard that. A quick looks shows him Molly looking slightly worried between the two of them, her rolling pin momentarily forgotten. But Sally looks a little bit vindicated while she mixes dried lemon peel into her alarmingly yellow looking mixture. Angelo winks at him when he catches his eye and John is not looking up from his careful slicing but Sherlock can tell by the stand of his ears that he’s smiling to himself. Not too bad then.

Everyone is remarkably silent for the next couple minutes, so Sherlock gets to focus on getting his two sponges out of the oven, repeating the bake with the third, and getting his icing into the fridge. So far he’s on schedule although he doesn’t have time for any more of this nonsense. He takes a sip of water, realises it’s the first thing he’s drunk (or eaten) today and downs half of the bottle, then starts to carefully pick the flower petals from his dandelions. It’s a time consuming job, they’re cold as they’re straight from the fridge, sticky, and he wants only the perfect ones to add to his icing. He shuffles his feet a little closer to the oven. His toes are slowly regaining feeling, even though his shoes are still soaked. Distracted by the sticky flowers petals Sherlock nearly misses the exact right time for taking the third sponge out, it should have been around forty seconds earlier. 

That’s the problem with a bake he hasn’t had a chance to time at home. It’s unpredictable. 

Twenty minutes left. Looking around shows that most people still have something in the oven right now. Mike’s cake has come out ten minutes ago and is cooling on the end of his counter, but seeing how it’s only one layer Sherlock doesn’t think it will impress much. Jim is slicing his baked squares of chocolate cake into paper thin layers with a sharp knife and professional grace. Angelo’s tiramisu cake is finished, but only just went into the fridge while something like that needs a good six hours to fully cool. Molly is back to sitting in front of her oven, although she has her first layer, fondant and decorations all ready to go on her counter so she might make it this time. Anderson has started over after the great bubbling cake fiasco but sounds as loud and confused as ever, wisely directing all his comments to Sally now. 

Sherlock decides it’s time, touches his first two layers one last time, not cold but close enough, drizzles a thin layer of wildflower honey on top (present from a grateful beekeeper client after finding out who had been poisoning his bees- Sherlock hadn’t expected to use it so soon, but now he’s glad he brought it), scoops his icing into his large-nuzzled canvas piping bag and starts piping the first layer. It would work with a spatula as well, but he prefers the control of piping, working in circles from the outside in. That done he sprinkles the dandelion petals evenly over the layer, making certain to get the edges as well so that their bright yellow colour will be visible still when the next layer goes on. He carefully lowers the second sponge on top of it, pipes the icing again, adds the bright blue cornflower petals and then feels the third sponge, still in its tin. It’s warmer than he would like it to be, like this there’s a chance it is going to melt the icing. He checks the time. Eight minutes to go. 

Decision made, Sherlock upends his cake onto a roster and walks it to the freezer. Just for two minutes, more will add moisture, make the cake soggy instead of just cool it down, so he stands in front of the freezer, pacing back and forth, counting down the seconds in his head. He catches John looking at him. John’s finished already again. Jim is currently piping the word “Opéra” in dark chocolate onto his otherwise finished cake. Soo Lin is piping little dots of whipped cream onto her sponge. It looks nicely glazed, although not as set as it could be. 

Sherlock takes his cake out of the freezer, runs it to his counter, places it carefully on top of the second layer, not too big of a difference in colour, good, and pipes the third and final layer of icing on top. This one he does have to even out with his icing spatula to get the right finish, and then adds his more ornately coloured flower petals, French marigolds, daylilies and starflowers, and arranges them on top. He manages to get them into a satisfying combination around the one minute mark, and spends the last sixty seconds cleaning up the edges. 

And then “Time! Stop touching your bakes!” Sherlock steps back, hair stuck to his forehead, slightly out of breath, and really looks at what he’s made. 

It’s beautiful. 

Simple, but the bright colours and the originality will appeal to the judges. It just has to. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock spends years looking forward to uni, but when he’s finally there it’s not much better than anything that came before. He’s lonely and bored, even advanced courses can’t occupy his mind completely, nothing can anymore. Mycroft isn’t even a decent distraction, always holding back, so cautious. 

Cocaine is none of those things. The first time Sherlock tries it, he falls in love. It makes him feel alive, it makes him want to go out and dance, have sex, bake naked, stay up for a week straight and write multiple theses at once. He spends days in drugs-addled hazes and feels ecstatic. He ups the doses, looks for more and better and different, tries changing the chemistry himself. His own body becomes the experiment now, a spike always hovering between pleasure and pain, an unreliable subject. 

After the second time he overdoses, Mycroft refuses the pine nut pancakes, rum Victoria sponge and rat poison violet macaroons that Sherlock has displayed on the bed for him. He claims he has gone on a diet. 

Seeing it as the punishment it is, Sherlock ups the ante, he starts leaving Mycroft’s favourites, delicious cake after cake, at his office, at his club, in his house, even at his local bakers. But Mycroft refuses, shows up in Sherlock’s flat in suits that are suddenly hanging off of him, looking pale and wan and terribly worried. 

It takes years before Sherlock wants to get clean, and then a couple more before he does. But Mycroft never eats his cakes again. 

 

\---

 

The judging is starting from the back this time, so Anderson is up first, and predictably, it’s a mess. While he did have time to bake his second try at a cake into something edible, the strawberries and filling are oozing out everywhere, much too runny. He scoffs at Sherlock but generally seems defeated by the whole experience. Sherlock can tell the judges are feeling for him, telling him every one can have bad luck, but he doesn’t think they’re considering keeping him around. 

Sally’s bright yellow ‘Canary cake’ gets some laughter, and she saves herself somewhat by claiming it would be perfect for a children’s party. The taste is very lemony but artificially so, with chewy dried lemon inside that is cut too large, and she is probably in trouble today as well. 

Then it’s Angelo’s turn, who was smart enough to take his tiramisu out only at the very last minute to add bitter cacao powder to the top, so that it hasn’t had time to turn soggy. He has also baked his ladyfinger biscuits himself, which impresses the judges a little. Mrs. Hudson especially enjoys the strong taste of Amaretto liquor (and she would, Sherlock thinks, Mrs. Hudson likes her drink.)

And then they’re at Sherlock’s counter. He really went all out on the idea and execution. There is no way they are not going to like it, but then that’s what he thought last time too. 

Lestrade says, “So, the wildflower cake. We’re both very curious to taste this one. First of all, visually stunning.” 

Mrs. Hudson says, “I would have liked the complete colour combination in every layer perhaps? Although this looks very pretty. Very. One of the nicest ones in the room.” 

Lestrade carefully cuts a piece, and shows it to the camera, “And it runs all the way through, nice layers of sponge, icing and then the colour of the flowers.” 

He uses his fork to pick off a piece, and tastes it. Sherlock twitches nervously. “I can taste the honey in there. Subtle, but it’s there. Nice sponge too, even bake. Actually, you know, the only thing I have a problem with is the flowers themselves. It’s the texture. You can feel the petals in your mouth, it’s… unappetising.” 

Mrs. Hudson nods, “I agree, it feels as if they’re sticking to the roof of my mouth, despite the icing… but it was a really nice idea though Sherlock. Very pretty.” 

Lestrade says, “Yes, visually, ten out of ten. But try to think more about the actual eating bit, okay?” 

Sherlock nods numbly and looks away from the camera. He doesn’t have to hear the comments of the others to know that he hasn’t won. 

But he’s probably done well enough to stay, if he should want to. 

Sherlock sees John watching him supportively, and without thinking about it much slices him a small piece and puts it ready on a plate. 

The judges move on to Molly, who did manage to finish a very white and pristine looking cake with a ribbon tied around it. If she’d had more time she would have decorated more, Sherlock can see the silver edible glitter and hearts still standing on her counter, but this time it might work in her favour that she kept it simple, he thinks. 

The first thing Mrs. Hudson says is “It looks nice, but a little basic.” 

“Yeah, did you run out of time?” 

Molly nods, “Yes, it’s so difficult to get it all done, I only just managed to bake the top layer, it was a bit of a scramble at the end.” 

When they taste it they deem the flavour too basic on the inside as well, and she is visibly disappointed, her shoulders sagging. 

John is next, the outside of his cake is quite plain again today, but when they cut into it it reveals a neat checkered pattern, straight lines of vanilla and chocolate cake with a filing of Bailey’s ganache in between. Mrs. Hudson says it’s a lovely surprise that there’s so much more than meets the eye, and even Lestrade admits that it’s executed well and tastes good. John thanks them. 

Henry’s white chocolate and raspberry cake tastes okay, although he has lost most of the white chocolate taste in the bake, and because of the high sugar content the edges are a little burned. 

Jim’s cake is an absolute marvel, apparently. His Opera Cake is fully finished, perfect sharp corners, all seven layers, it makes a soft breaking sound when cut into, and the tastes are exactly what they are supposed to be. It can go straight into a cookbook, Lestrade says. Sherlock doesn’t buy it for a second when Jim pretends to blush under the praise, saying that it has never worked as well as today. That guy is all pretend, and he is most definitely lying, he knew exactly what he was doing every step of the way. 

Compared to Jim’s, Mike’s coffee cake with nuts and spices is only a small and solid thing, and even though the flavour gets some positive feedback, it’s obvious that his execution is not up to par. 

Last of the pack is Soo Lin, whose Chinese lime sponge cake gets credit for originality again, the judges trying several bites before they can really comment on the taste, Mrs. Hudson even says it tastes like nothing she has ever eaten before, while Soo Lin shyly smiles. 

The judges leave to deliberate on who is going to win star baker and who is going home, and a lot of the tension leaves the room with them. Everyone is deflating, some happy, most not. 

The cameraman asks him about what he thinks went wrong with his wildflower cake, but Sherlock ignores him. Most people have gathered around Jim’s table, looking at his cake and tasting, complimenting him some more, but Sherlock ignores them too. 

He has never made something that Mrs. Hudson couldn’t identify. 

Sherlock gathers up the plate with a small piece of his cake on it, sets it on John’s counter and then walks past him towards Soo Lin’s. He wants to know what she did.

 

\---

 

It’s Mycroft who sent the staggering pile of professional baking supplies to Baker Street, Sherlock knows that. He’s been clean for fourteen months. It’s a celebration. He knows Mycroft well enough to know that it’s an apology as well, a bribe if he wants it to be, a question of sorts. 

It’s been years since Sherlock’s cared about baking, but he’s bored and he has a kitchen of his own now and suddenly while looking at the strainers and moulds, stainless steel blenders and colourful spices, Sherlock’s hands are _itching_ for it. 

By the time Mrs. Hudson comes up to ask about the smell Sherlock has a good fifteen or so bakes standing around the flat and notes for another ten and she looks at him with such delight, tastes them all and says he’s talented, that she’s proud of him, and that’s still a new thing, then, to make someone proud. Sherlock keeps that memory, thinks it over sometimes when he’s aching for a hit, staring at the ceiling for another endless night. Proud. 

So he starts baking again. Over the months his mind palace gains a large, gleaming kitchen with multiple ovens and continual piles of hand-written and stained recipes, filled with corrections and additions. 

And sometimes it reminds him of something he thought he’d deleted. Like the smell of Mycroft’s sheets. The feel of his lips. The first time it happens Sherlock throws a crème brûlée out of the window. The second time he rips a peach pie apart with his bare fingers, burning himself, uncomfortably aware that he’s aching for that, too. But it doesn’t make him stop. If anything, it helps to have Mycroft’s favourites in the oven when he comes by because it makes him leave near-immediately. 

So when Mrs. Hudson asks Sherlock to sign up for the Great British Bake Off he says yes because he thinks he can win, and because he is an exquisite baker. Not for Mycroft. 

Never again. 

 

\---

 

Soo Lin seems a little surprised to see Sherlock, since he hasn’t talked to her at all yet.

She lived in China until her late teens, Sherlock already knew that but it’s even more obvious by the accent. She has done well so far in the competition by relying on her heritage and flavours, so he asks her, “What Chinese ingredients are you using?” 

She hesitates, then says, “I don’t know the right English names. But if you want to you can try a piece of my cake?” 

“I would.” Sherlock accepts the piece gracefully. He smells it, uses his fork to carefully dissect the layers before he tastes each one separately. Most of the flavours are quite straightforward, nothing he couldn’t find in a good Chinese specialty store, but there’s one that eludes him. “Which one has the dark, slightly smoky flavour? Not bitter, but with some heat? 

She stares at him awkwardly. “I really do not know the English names…”

“Do you have them here, the herbs? You must have brought extra, would be unwise not to.” Sherlock looks over her counter, but can’t see anything. “Where are they? If I could smell them I could identify them.”

John comes over, Sherlock’s plate in his hand, looks at Sherlock holding a fork and says, “Oh so you do eat cake! And this was fantastic by the way.” 

‘Fantastic’. He knew it was. He knew it. Sherlock pushes the feeling of triumph away. “Not eating, tasting, there’s a difference.” He briefly smiles at John, then looks back at Soo Lin “Where did you buy them? Or what is the Chinese name?”

“Sherlock! You can’t just ask her that.” John seems insulted in her stead. 

Sherlock feels confused. “Why not? Why can’t I ask her?” It’s exceedingly rare for him not to recognise a taste, and neither did Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade. The only person he knows of with a better palate than his own is Mycroft, and he’s not exactly going to ask him to come and analyse Soo Lin’s bake. He simply wants to know. 

“Because we’re in a competition, if she wants to keep her secrets than she should be allowed to.” 

Soo Lin looks between them nervously. 

“I told you everything that was in my cake,” Sherlock argues. 

John grins. “Only because you think I’m not competition, remember? Feel free to change your mind about that any time by the way.” He seems a little smug. 

Sherlock is forced to leave it be when the judges come back into the tent, and they’re asked to line up in front of the tent. 

Lestrade steps up. “First of all, I have the honour of announcing this week’s star baker.” 

Sherlock already knows that it’s not going to be him, so that’s dull. It might be John though. Or Soo Lin. She’s clasping her hands together rather tightly. 

“Our Opera baker, Jim! Congratulations.” Oh.

Several of the other bakers step forward and gather around to pat him on the back. Sherlock stays out of it and is gratified to see that John does as well. 

“And now, the moment of truth.” Mrs. Hudson purses her lips. She doesn’t sound fond of this part. “We are going to say goodbye to two bakers today. I know you all did your best, but in the end we have to make a choice. So… Anderson.” Sherlock agrees, besides the fact that the guy has the grace of a buffoon, none of his bakes were executed remotely well. 

“And Mike.” A little murmur goes through the group. He was already well-liked, and it’s obvious in the hugs and goodbyes he gets that he is going to be missed. Sherlock shakes Mike’s hand, but as he sees the tears start to well up in his red and earnest face lets go quickly. 

The cameramen film Mike and Anderson walking out the tent, some general shots of all of them standing there, and then it’s over. 

The first weekend of the Bake Off. 

It feels like it has been much shorter than a day and a half. Sherlock’s feet are still uncomfortably wet. His stomach is rumbling mildly. Most people need to go back to their counters to pack up their stuff, but Sherlock is leaving nearly all of it, besides the perishables, right here. John seems to be done quickly as well, and they walk out of the tent together. 

“So next week is bread.” John needs to lean heavily on his cane to navigate through the field but he seems fine with keeping up a conversation.

Sherlock hums something in the affirmative. It’s not raining right now, but the clouds look grey and dreary. Yeast is going to be a nightmare to handle if it’s this cold outside again next weekend. 

“Not looking forward to that.” John sounds tired, but there’s something in his eyes...

They’re walking close, close enough for John’s sleeve to slightly drag over Sherlock’s jacket on every step. It feels a little odd, but not unpleasant. Sherlock takes a breath, “Yes, you are.”

John looks at him briefly, and then gives in. “Yes, okay, I am. Can’t wait, actually.” 

Sherlock feels the side of his mouth curl up. 

“Me, too.”

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Bread (John)

  


 

The Signature Bake

John walks into the Bake Off tent for the second week in a row, carrying three shopping bags in his one hand while using his cane with the other. To be honest, he’s still somewhat surprised that he even survived week one. He always knew he was a decent enough baker, but to have done well against competition is something else entirely. He’s spent most of the week in a daze, trying to get over the fact that he’ll have to do it all over again and with bread this time. 

With Anderson and Mike gone, the setup has gone from ten workspaces to eight. Sally has moved to Mike’s old spot and John is working in the third row again, so he’s next to Molly today.

Sherlock is already here, dressed impeccably in a dark suit. John says “Hi there,” although he’s pretty sure Sherlock’s too absorbed in staring down his microscope to notice, but he does mumble a “Hello, John,” about half a minute after he’s passed by. 

Molly arrives right behind, and John asks her how she’s been. “Great, just a little nervous, you know? Bread…” It’s cold in the tent this early, so she wraps a large knitted scarf around her neck before putting on her apron. It’s pink.

John takes his supplies out of his bags and starts setting up as well. He has considerably less than the crates of stuff Sherlock has brought, only as much as he can carry one handed really. There’s yeast that he started himself only a couple months ago, a selection of flours, semolina, nuts and seeds, honey, spiced sultanas, fresh oranges, and finally peppers and olives to bake into the bread sticks he’ll be making. 

He finishes quickly, and leans on his counter for a minute. He’s feeling tired already. He can’t drive with his leg, so in order to get here he has to get up at five in the morning, take the first bus into central London, then a train, and a taxi from the station. There’s the blog, therapy, preparing for these bakes, plus he’s barely slept the last few nights. John pinches the bridge between his eyes. The nightmares are always at their worst when he doesn’t want them to be. 

“Good morning, John!” He startles. Angelo is there, putting a selection of deli meats, fresh peppers and home grown tomatoes into their shared fridge. 

“Right, morning.” 

Henry has finished setting up and comes by as well. “Hi, John! Chilly today, isn’t it?” 

John hums something in the affirmative, then listens to them chat about ingredients for a couple minutes.

Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade arrive soon after, so he washes his hands, puts his apron on, mentally reviews his bake so that he’s sure that he has everything he needs close by, then breathes out slowly. Time to do this then. 

The cameras turn on, and Lestrade makes the opening speech: “Bread week! My favourite. I have made my career out of it, and who knows, perhaps some of you will do the same. We are asking you to bake a batch of twenty four bread sticks for the first challenge today, all using yeast, and they should be crisp and produce a good snap. You can pick any recipe you want, any type of breadstick or flavour combination, it’s up to you.” 

Mrs. Hudson adds, “You have two hours. Are you ready? Get set, bake!” 

 

\---

 

John’s earliest memory is watching his mum bake. 

He must have been three or four, sitting on the orange and brown tiled kitchen counter of their old house, his short legs dangling. 

Mum adds things to a large green bowl and sings along with the radio. Her face is hazy, but he watches her hands. How she breaks up a chocolate bar into little pieces to melt it, sifts flour, uses a mixer, shuffles pots and pans around. It’s loud and it takes a long time, so John bangs his legs against the kitchen cabinet, and then in the air, up and down until one of his socks falls off. Mum turns the mixer off, bends down to take his sock, puts it back on his foot and gives him a spoon to lick. 

John’s not sure whether he’s made that memory up or if it’s real, because she dies when he is ten and before that she’s ill for years, a shell of a woman wasting away in a bed. And he never asked her about it, whether she remembered. He never asked her much. 

 

\---

 

John is making twisted rye bread sticks for the first challenge. He tried out a couple varieties at home, and the ones he’s making today are the ones he thought looked best. He knows most of the other bakers have been baking large batches and polling family, friends and co-workers on which ones they prefer, but unless he’s going to start passing them out to random people in the street John doesn’t have that kind of audience, so he has to make do. 

The first thing to do is to make the dough: water, a mixture of white and rye flour, a bit of salt, olive oil, yeast. John mixes them all together in a large bowl and starts kneading. He does enjoy it, dough, there’s just something about working with your hands, the simplicity of it, that’s quite appealing, John thinks. It takes a good ten minutes of flexing, pounding and throwing, and all the other bakers in the tent are doing the same so the sound of dough slapping onto counters is all around. 

Most people are focused, but he can hear some laughter, Jim seems to be joking with Molly about something, Angelo behind him is humming slightly out of tune again, and Sally comments “This is great for getting all your frustrations out, isn’t it?” while pounding away. It’s a good group, John thinks, they’ve all connected a bit by now, shared their baking tales and mishaps. So far it’s been great. Being out of the flat, competing, talking to real live people for once instead of online. 

John can tell when his dough is done and should be rested. It just feels right, more supple all of a sudden. It’s an instinct that comes after baking enough and it’s hard to explain. Jim, of course, is explaining it to the camera right now, telling them that it is all about the gluten strands and that it should be worked until they have stretched enough, but not too far. Sherlock is peering down his microscope again, probably checking for that exact thing. 

John covers his dough with oiled cling film, sets it aside next to the preheating oven to rise for a bit, and uses the time to line up his other ingredients and chop his olives. He’s found that if he just chops them randomly they have the tendency to fall out, so he prefers to cut them into thin strips. Then cleans up his counter, waits a bit more, and gets back to the dough, divides it into two equal portions to roll it out. He sprinkles on his olives, poppy seeds, caraway seeds and pepperoncini flakes onto one, places the other layer on top and adds semolina, then cuts them into strips and twists carefully. 

It takes the best part of an hour before he’s done because the twists take extra time, but John thinks it might be worth the effort. It makes them stand out, at least. 

He puts them on a baking tray and into the oven, sets the timer, and sits down on the chair they provided. 

It’s still rather cold and clammy in the tent and his leg does not cope with that particularly well. It’s been throbbing all morning, making his whole side feel as if he’s pinched a nerve although he knows he hasn’t. John breathes out slowly, tries to focus on the moment the way they thought him in therapy but it does absolutely nothing, if anything he’s even more aware of it hurting. 

He can see the cameraman closest to him zooming in to film him sitting there, and looks away. Nothing to see here. 

He wonders if they’ll do a voice-over in post-production, John Watson, wounded in battle, bravery, dedication to queen and country. It’s enough to make him wish for some more dough to throw around. Sally was right, it does wonders for dealing with your issues. 

Mrs. Hudson comes over to ask, “John, how are you doing?” It’s obvious she doesn’t mean his baking.

She’s wearing a bright, flowery dress, and John focuses on a flower somewhere around her shoulder when he says, “Fine, fine.” He can do everything anyone else can, that’s what he told the organisation. “Everything’s in the oven, so it’s just waiting now.” 

Mrs. Hudson nods, “You’re taking it easy, I understand dear, I’ve got a hip.” 

John grinds his teeth. He knows she means well but he’s not _taking it easy_ , goddammit. He’s baking just as much as everyone else, he’s been preparing day and night, he’s... He nods at her. “Yes. Thank you.” 

John sees Sherlock’s eyes land on him a couple of times. He has flower pods spread over his counter and seems to be opening them for the little black seeds inside, but most bakers are too busy to pay him much attention. 

Henry comes over once his own breadsticks are baking, and asks quietly if he wants him to open his oven to check on the moisture. John thanks him but leans over and does it himself, a cloud of steam coming out of the oven, and then closes it again. 

Molly looks their way, and mouths, “You ok?” John nods. She is adding raisins to her dough. 

The oven has to be checked every few minutes. It’s burning on high heat right now, and as soon as the colour is right the temperature has to go down to dry the breadsticks out slowly so they’re crisp, but not burn them. John keeps a careful eye on them and by the end of the bake is back on his feet, awkwardly kneeling to take the bread sticks out of the low oven. He spreads them over a wire rack to cool down, and then arranges them into a basket at the last minute. 

He likes the look of them. Anything else is up to the judges. 

 

\---

 

John knows Mum made simple things like raisin bread and chocolate pudding, muffins and apple crumbles, but he can’t remember the taste of them at all. She didn’t leave him any recipes or cookbooks, not many memories either. Just a quiet room with her in it, first a normal wheelchair, then an electric one, and then one day, an empty bed. 

John’s much closer to his father growing up, it’s simpler. Dad is tall and broad, loud, a lot like Harry. Always the centre of attention, the kind of father who wraps him up in a bear hug, who defends him against bullies (although it’s mainly Harry who gets into trouble even then), who helps build a Lego castle or drags in a large real pine tree every Christmas. One who loves their mother very much, apparently, because after she gets sick he starts drinking and turns all that energy into loud, violent self-destruction. 

Harry slowly disconnects as well. She gets terrible grades, she steals and lies. She pierces her eyebrow in the bathroom mirror with a safety pin, dyes her hair purple and starts dating a guy with a motorcycle. She screams at John whenever he asks her how she’s doing. She’s fourteen. 

So John is the one who does the shopping. The one who stays in school, fries the eggs and boils potatoes. It takes a couple of years before he can bake, and even then he learns only because it’s good to know what he can do with some basic ingredients when they’re broke, not because he actually cares for it. It’s practical. 

 

\---

 

John doesn’t mind the judging part of the challenges. By then there’s nothing more he can change about his own bake anymore anyway, and he can learn a lot about what they’re looking for by listening to the comments, both to his own work and to the others. He’s never had his baking criticised with such attention to detail before. It’s a little uncomfortable, but they do it well, they seem careful not to say anything too scathing. 

They’re starting up front, so first up is Soo Lin, whose Asian bread sticks look nice if a little thin, but they are too spicy and would distract too much from the main meal, according to Lestrade. She’s been quiet so far but she seems very capable, John thinks. 

Next is Jim, who certainly thinks of himself as magic. He’s already proven to be good but it does get a little tiring to have to listen to him say it constantly. Jim’s thyme and parmesan grissini sticks are surprisingly underbaked today though, chewy. They don’t give the little ‘crack’ when snapped and Jim looks faintly embarrassed about it, although John sees a glimpse of anger on his face when the judges turn their backs. 

Then Sally, her Moroccan breadsticks are presented very nicely in a wheel, with orange peel bits on top for colour, but the flavour is bordering on bland and they’re very uneven, some a lot longer than others. 

Henry’s fennel and chilli combination does work, as well as his snap, and he looks quite proud of himself. John gives him a nod. Henry grins. 

And then they’re at John’s counter. “So, twisted breadsticks?” Mrs. Hudson asks. 

“I like the idea,” Lestrade says, “and it’s executed well, your twists have stayed while baking them, well done that.” Lestrade seems like an okay bloke, to John. He doesn’t quite get why so many of the other bakers seem to hate him. 

“And now for the taste…” Both Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson take a bite, and chew. 

Mrs. Hudson says, “It’s good. Very nice. The rye flour does give it a different flavour than the other ones we’ve tasted, and the poppy seeds complement the texture well. I can taste the pepperoncini, the only flavour I’m not getting is the olives, use larger pieces next time perhaps?” 

Lestrade shakes his head, “You know, I’ve got to disagree, I think the olives come through nicely. Well done.” 

John thanks them. That wasn’t bad at all.

Molly is next, and she’s the only one who has tried to make sweet bread sticks with raisins and rosemary. The taste is nice but the added moisture of the raisins have made them chewy and not crisp, and a couple are burned. 

Then Sherlock. The black seeds were Nigella seeds apparently, and he’s added Parmesan as well. His bread sticks produce the loudest snap yet, his batch is perfectly even, and for the first time the judges really seem to love the taste as well. Sherlock is trying hard not to show it, but John thinks he looks relieved. They were very strict in judging him last week, maybe because he knows Mrs. Hudson and they didn’t want to show favouritism, but both of Sherlock’s cakes were extraordinary, John thought. Something that he wouldn’t think of making in a million years. 

Angelo is the last one up. His Italian grissini with oregano are “absolutely bloody perfect,” according to Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson hums her agreement while she chews. 

Angelo’s lip trembles. 

Then he takes a step forward, lunges at Lestrade and hugs him, nearly lifting him off his feet in joy. Lestrade turns beet red but he laughs and pats Angelo’s back until he’s put down again. Mrs. Hudson hides her mouth behind her hand as she giggles, and she says she agrees, that they’re beautifully flavoured. 

And that’s it, judging done. 

John goes over to Sherlock’s counter as soon as the cameras turn off. He really enjoyed talking to Sherlock last week. He’s a bit peculiar but he truly seems to be some sort of creative baking genius. And oh yes, attractive.

Sherlock wordlessly hands him a bread stick. John feels his stomach clench as Sherlock’s fingers linger on his for a moment. 

Very attractive. 

John sticks the breadstick into his mouth and bites down. He likes the dryness of it, the way it crumbles, and the seeds give a fine taste that lingers in his mouth. Tasting Sherlock’s work means having his absolute attention, like last time Sherlock’s eyes pierce his face, catch every minute twitch and sound. 

John has the thought that he’s going to taste an awful lot of Sherlock’s bakes in these coming weeks. It’s that hot. 

“It’s great,” he says, “Um, _very_ good.” and Sherlock avidly watches him eat the entire stick, bite by bite. 

 

\---

 

John doesn’t start to bake for fun until he’s at uni, and even then it’s mostly because girls think it’s wonderful when he serves them home-made waffles on the morning after. He manages to do a lot in that flat’s little oven, batches of cookies, pies to share with his flat mates and the girlfriends of the week, more complicated things like soufflés when everyone has gone home for the holidays and it’s just him there and he wants to relax for a minute, just turn off his brain. 

John likes the routine of it, the ease of adding ingredients one by one, measuring, mixing, and then the result. It’s easy, and easy is good when he’s in the middle of cramming for some exam, Latin names and diseases fluttering around his ears, procedures and statistics. Becoming a doctor means reciting a lot more nonsense than he had even thought it would, information upon information, most of it outdated but they need to be familiar with it anyway. It’s the toughest thing he’s ever tried to do and compared to that, baking a cake is wonderfully straightforward. It helps. 

 

\---

 

The Technical Challenge

John eats lunch sitting next to Sherlock again, but after he’s eaten the breadstick Sherlock mostly ignores him. Sherlock doesn’t eat at all- John is starting to think that he lives off the occasional scrap of cake and nothing else- and just sits with his hands fixed under his chin staring into space, hands occasionally twitching as if he is kneading some imaginary dough. 

Across from them is Angelo, who is in high spirits after his good bake and tells stories of his childhood in Italy, and Sally, who complains about not having enough free time to practise and throws the occasional doubtful look at Sherlock. She seems to think he is hamming it up for the cameras. Both Jim and Soo Lin have disappeared somewhere, and Henry is shyly talking to Molly about marzipan. 

When it’s time to get back into the tent everyone gets up, except Sherlock, who seems to be oblivious to his surroundings. And John. His leg gets stiff after sitting down for a while and he likes to stall for time so that no one sees him struggle getting up out of a low chair. 

Sally looks at Sherlock, notices that he’s still off somewhere in his head and rolls her eyes. “Come on freak, you need to come too.” 

“Sally!” John feels indignant, that’s hardly polite, but Sherlock doesn’t even seem to have heard. She shrugs and leaves them to it. 

John says, “Sherlock. Hey. We really do need to go.” 

He doesn’t respond. 

John hesitates for a moment, then touches Sherlock’s twitching hand and gently wraps his fingers around it. “Hey.”

That does it, Sherlock looks at him a little forlorn and says “I only have reviewed thirty-four possible recipes for this technical bake, John, I am entertaining the possibility I might not have gotten the correct one.”

John feels a smile break free. “I’m sure you’ll be fine either way.” Sherlock’s fingers are surprisingly callused to touch, his skin a relief of small burns and scars. 

“You can’t be sure, I have little experience with bread, it might be something I’ve never heard of.” 

“True. It might be something I haven’t heard of either.” John lets go of Sherlock’s hand, already regretting it a little, and uses the table and his cane to push himself up out of the chair. “Actually, it probably will be.” He’s hardly a well-trained bread baker himself. 

“And that doesn’t concern you?” Sherlock seems almost aghast at the suggestion. 

John laughs. “No. That’s why it’s a good competition, isn’t it? You can’t prepare for everything.” 

Sherlock frowns. “Of course you can.” 

John has a chance to regret his cavalier words later when they’re all settled in the marquee again, aprons on, and Mrs. Hudson announces, “This week you will be making us a plaited loaf. An eight strand plaited loaf to be exact.” And several groans go around the room, Jim saying, “Oh dear me!”, Sally whispers _“Eight?”_ and Henry hides his face in his hands. 

John can’t plait. At all. There was a patient once, a little girl, asking him to fix her fine, blonde hair after she’d broken her arm. After several failed tries he had to admit he couldn’t and ask someone else. He glances at Sherlock and wonders whether this was one of his thirty-four possibilities, but he seems to be all focus again, giving little away about whether he can do this at all or not. 

Lestrade adds, “You have two hours to do it in, and this is a tough one, so good luck everyone, get ready, set, and bake!” 

John turns the recipe over. The instructions for the dough are very sparse this time, just some measurements. But they are specific about how to go about doing a plait, thankfully, so he starts reading those while assembling the ingredients, mixing them by hand and kneading. It seems like managing three or four strands with something as stretchy, soft and breakable as dough would already be quite the task, but perhaps it’s easier than it sounds. 

“Divide your dough into eight equal strands. Lay them out on a lightly floured surface like an octopus, fanned out from a central point at the top.” All right, that seems simple enough. 

“Number the strands of dough from one to eight, left to right. Every time you move a strand it will take the new number of its position in the row.  
-Step one: place eight under seven and over one.  
-Step two: place eight over five.  
-Step three: place two under three and over eight.  
-Step four: place one over four.  
-Step five: place seven under six and over one. Repeats steps two to five until all the dough is braided, and then tuck both ends of the loaf underneath to give it a tidy finish.” 

John blinks, and reads it again. Right. Good thing nearly everyone around the room seems to be echoing his thoughts, Molly is frowning at her page with instructions, Henry is sighing loudly, Sherlock is mumbling “eight, seven, one” under his breath. Even Angelo admits to the camera “I do not quite know where to start.” Soo Lin however seems undaunted and has already started dividing her dough, weighing each piece to ensure they’re all equal, and Jim is doing the same without a scale, he’s just dividing on feel.

John follows Soo Lin’s example and uses the scale, at home he wouldn’t but here it seems like a good idea to know exactly what he’s doing. Both Sherlock and Angelo opt not to, and Henry, Molly and Sally are still kneading. After having eight pieces neatly spread out on his counter John rolls them into round little appendages, and joins them together on top. He sees Molly checking on him, and he whispers, “Octopus phase is a go!” She giggles. 

Having them all laid out like that, it is not too difficult to mentally number them. John has to start with putting eight, so the last one, under seven, so that’s the one next to it, and over the first one. He makes sure not to pull on the strands too much, simply lays the one over the other with little pockets of air left in between for when the dough rises, and he soon learns that when he makes a mistake it is possible to carefully unravel it again. It is hard not to work the strands too much, he’s afraid that if he pulls them they’ll get thinner and thinner by the time he gets at the bottom. 

Looking around shows that both Sherlock and Molly have done exactly that though, pulled their strands in at every move from the beginning so that the braid is much tighter and more complicated. Sherlock’s looks the neatest, but he’s also going slower than most. He seems to know the sequence by heart now, the instruction sheet forgotten in a corner but he’s working very meticulously with a ruler laid next to the dough. 

Sally’s seems rather basic, but she is putting it away to prove already, which might be a good idea, John thinks. Two hours is a very short time for bread because the dough needs time and warmth to rise and it’s still cool inside the tent. He allows himself one more try to fix a rather large hole in the middle, and then tucks the ends in underneath and put his loaf in the proving drawer as well. John looks at the clock. One hour and five minutes to go. The dough should prove for an hour and bake for twenty five minutes, but that’s not going to happen for any of them today apparently. He sees Molly look up with a panicked expression and double her efforts. 

Henry is going quite slowly as well, so John leans over his counter and says, quietly, “Time is getting close.” 

Henry nods, and John can see that his hands are shaking. “I know, I know, I just can’t seem to get this right!” 

It does look rather messy, a braid only by the vaguest of definitions. John can’t see a way to salvage it within the next five minutes either. 

Henry sighs, “You’re right though.” Then sticks his attempt in the proving drawer with a defeated look on his face. 

Jim’s is only going in the drawer now as well, but it looks marvellous, as always. Sherlock is the only one who is still in the middle of his plait. Sherlock does not enjoy being disturbed when he’s working, John noticed that on day one when he pretty much ignored the judges advice, but there’s a good chance he’s not quite aware of how little time he has left either. 

John walks over carefully, fully prepared to be told to go away, but Sherlock speaks before he even has to say anything, head bowed over his plait. “I’m aware of the time, John.” 

Half an hour later all of the loaves come out of the proving drawers, get a quick egg wash and rushed into the oven. John is fairly happy with his, it doesn’t look very complicated but he got a good enough rise and you can tell that it’s a plait at least, as opposed to some of the others around the room. 

Sherlock’s when he takes it out has hardly risen but the design is obvious. He applies his egg wash with care and John has to fight the impulse to tell him to hurry up again. 

They all cut it very close to the deadline with the baking time. John’s has a slight golden colour, but nothing like the deep brown he would usually wait for. Soo Lin takes hers out first, then Angelo, Sally about a minute before the end but everyone else waits until the thirty second count down to reach in there, grab the loaf and place it on the rack. 

 

\---

 

Baking becomes something completely different for John when he’s stationed abroad. 

It’s no longer just an indulgence, because everyone is desperate for a little taste of home and he can give it to them. He experiments with baking over an open fire, in stone ovens, even in a microwave and, one memorable afternoon, over a hot Jeep engine. John serves liquid cakes to his injured soldiers, bakes pies consisting mainly of what’s in the ration packs, but still they’re grateful. 

He becomes the first person to go to when something needs celebrating. They trade in villages for fresh fruit and eggs and John starts making birthday cakes and your-wife-just-had-a-baby pies, end-of-duty breakfast pancakes, thank-god-we’re-not-dead waffles, and, the worst kind, we-just-lost-a-friend (or two, or three) pizzas. He takes commissions and spur of the moment bakes, and by the end he spends nearly all his free time in the commissary tent because it’s something simple, and it makes people happy. 

After John gets shot he wakes up in a German hospital, raw with screams, nauseous with bone-deep pain, and all he can think is ‘Wonder who’ll bake now.’

 

\---

 

“...and that’s it, stop touching your loaves!” 

John is sweating in his jumper, the baking tent has finally warmed up a bit from all the ovens, and this was a close one. He sees other people shed their scarves and sweaters as well as he brings his loaf up to the judge’s table. The tent is a mess again, splotches of egg wash and bits of dough all over the carpet. 

The row of plaited breads is really interesting to watch, there’s everything from vague misshapen things with a bump here and there to real masterpieces. 

Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade come in, cut them all open, comment on size, the pattern, colour, and then taste. 

John’s is first to be looked at although the judging is blind, so they don’t know it’s his. They like the taste and the rise, but say that the plait is on the simple side, which is what he knew really. 

Angelo’s is next, with a nice plait in the middle but the ends have turned into big bumps, no definition in them. Sally’s has risen best of all because she proved it the longest, but because it is so big it is underbaked, and her plait is a mess. So is Henry’s, although his bake is slightly better. Soo Lin’s has a professional-looking shape and deep colour, but the inside is still a little doughy, so she probably baked it on too high a temperature, trying to rush it. 

Sherlock’s has the best plait of all, tiny bumps and very even, but it’s overworked and dense because it hasn’t risen enough. Jim’s has a nice plait as well, slightly larger than Sherlock’s and airier on the inside although the colour is very pale. Molly is last, her plait is a little crooked, defined well but overworked. 

The judges confer, and then rank them from worst to best. In eighth place is Sally, then Henry, Angelo, Molly, and Sherlock. John gets third place surprisingly, then Jim second, and first is Soo Lin. 

She smiles brightly, and Lestrade tells her it was good work. 

And with that they’re done. 

The cameras turn off and John folds up his apron and puts his ingredients away for tomorrow’s bake. He’s feeling fairly good about the day. He’s been consistently middle of the pack, nowhere near as good as the front runners, Jim and Soo Lin, but well enough that if he doesn’t mess up too badly tomorrow he should be able to stay for another week after this, which, admittedly, feels great. 

Now that the tension of the challenge has gone he can feel his leg acting up again so he navigates the carpet and various spills carefully, declines Henry’s offer to go for a walk around the grounds and goes back to his room to lie down a bit before going to dinner. 

Since it’s too far to commute to London all of the contestants stay in the castle overnight, and so do all of the film crew, the production crew, the technicians, their assistants and so on. All together they make quite a crowd, so the BBC has brought in their own catering team as well and made a restaurant out of a large dining hall inside the castle. John liked it last week, getting to know everyone better. And all of the food so far has been delicious as well, although it almost has to be for a cooking show, John thinks. Plus he’s used to army food, so his standards are probably lower than most people’s. 

When he walks up to the entrance he’s surprised to see Sherlock already standing there, busily tapping away on his phone. He wasn’t even here last week. 

Sherlock sees him coming, looks up and says, “Dinner?”

And John nods, “Yes. Yes, of course, after you.” 

Most of the tables are already taken as they walk inside. The other bakers are there as well and they could easily go sit with them, but Sherlock purposefully walks past them and picks a table for two in a secluded corner. John doesn’t comment, but doesn’t try to hide his smile either. 

Well! He hasn’t been on a date in months. Or well, any situation vaguely like one, John thinks, eyeing Sherlock. He’s not sure if this qualifies or if Sherlock simply doesn’t want to bother with anyone else, but either way, he certainly doesn’t mind. John’s tried, of course, in the last year, meeting women in the pub, once in the launderette, but he finds he has so little to say, now. He doesn’t work, doesn’t go out much besides to do the shopping. They all think he’s some sort of hero and quickly lose interest when they find out that he’s really, really not. 

John pours them both some wine, then asks about the technical and Sherlock’s predictions for the next ones. Apparently he has charts with rates of probability. Sherlock is much more animated than he was at lunch, hands moving as he speaks, eyes shining in the candlelight. He’s coolly condescending and brilliant and surprisingly, _funny_. 

The other bakers are undoubtedly already talking about them, but John finds that he doesn’t care one bit. Let them. 

“You know you can tell a good bread baker from the muscles in their dominant upper arm.”

“What, really?” John briefly glances at his own arm. He can’t tell if Sherlock is being serious. Although it does make some sense. “And a pie baker from their left toe or something?” 

“Thumbs, actually.” 

John laughs. “And what am I?” 

Sherlock looks him over. “Both. Obviously.”

It’s enough to make John forget all the things that he doesn’t talk about, all the things that are wrong with him. Sherlock doesn’t ask about Afghanistan or his cane but doesn’t talk around it either. Sherlock’s horrifyingly straightforward actually, gives his opinion on everything John and everyone else has been doing wrong baking-wise so far, and after a while John’s cheeks starts hurting from laughing so much. They stay seated for a long time, compare notes on the strangest things they’ve ever baked (that one’s all Sherlock) and the strangest ways and locations (John wins). 

And then, just as he’s thinking that yes, maybe, this is going somewhere, Sherlock checks his phone and says “John, I need to prepare for tomorrow.” 

And John moves back a little, nods and says, “Yes, yes, of course.” Because it’s already late, and the competition comes first, obviously. Besides, they can do this again later. He smiles at him. 

The way Sherlock looks back makes him think that yes, maybe they will. 

John watches him leave, something curious settling in his chest. 

 

\---

 

John can’t afford to live in London on an army pension so he takes the only option left: he moves in with Harry. She’s recently divorced, a recovering alcoholic and lives in the cheapest one bedroom flat she could find. It’s bland, the walls a faint sort of beige that suggests that once upon a time they were white and furnished with a wobbly table and a faded sofa John sleeps on. The neighbours are chain smokers. 

John spends his days alone there, watching the light filter through the dirty curtains. No one needs him for anything now. 

His therapist tells him to start a blog. He tells her that he has nothing to write about, because nothing happens to him anymore. What would he write about? I read the paper today? I took a walk? It’s Harry who reminds him that he used to bake sometimes, didn’t he, for the other soldiers or something? 

And so John, jaded, so very bored and alone, starts: “The secret to baking in wartime is…” 

 

\---

 

John finishes his wine slowly, then walks outside, mentally replaying their conversation. It’s the best dinner he’s had in ages. He hears someone walk up behind him, but he pays them little mind. He’s already looking forward to breakfast. Although who knows whether Sherlock will show up for that, so maybe just the challenge. 

And then the footsteps are very close, suddenly. John looks behind him to find out who it is, part of him thinking that maybe it is Sherlock come back to join him anyway, when someone throws a bag over his head and rudely pushes him down. 

John doesn’t even have to think about it, doesn’t panic, just hits centre mass of his attacker, elbow in the solar plexus. He uses his cane as a club, aims for the head, hits something and hears a muffled curse. He yells as loud as he can, “Sherlock!” and then “Help!” 

Someone is telling him to shut up, but John holds out his cane again and tries to get the bag off of his head with his other hand. He is not going to let himself be taken lightly. He keeps moving, one side to the other. 

He hears the crunch of grass as the man moves, John spins around but he’s not fast enough. Something hits him, and suddenly there’s a screech of pain on his forehead and his legs buckle. Fuck!

It takes him a couple of fast breaths, black and white spots dancing in his vision, to realise the hands under his armpits belong to two different people and are half-dragging, half-pulling him. They slip a plastic tie over his wrists, binding them together, and drop him on the back seat of a car, large, smooth leather interior. The doors slam and gravel screeching under the tires as it drives away. 

John’s head is pounding in time with his heartbeat. It’s hard to breathe with the bag over his face, the cloth feels rough and wet against his mouth. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He tries to take measured breaths. He’s hurt, but not to the degree that it will need immediate attention he thinks, the hit was just meant to confuse him enough to be taken, not to take him out. 

He hears a male voice say “I had to rough him up a bit. Yes, I know he said not to, but he was putting up a fight. Tell him we had no choice.” 

John tries to think clearly. He has nothing that these people could possibly want, he is nearly a year out of date on military procedures and info, maybe if they’d realise that... So he speaks up, voice sounding muffled through the bag, “What do you want from me?” 

If no one saw him get taken it will be until the challenge begins midmorning tomorrow before he’s missed. He left his phone behind in his room. Great. He tries again, “Look, take my wallet, everything on me, let me go.” 

A female voice answers him from the driver’s side. “Sit tight, Doctor Watson. We will be there soon.” 

_Doctor Watson_. They know who he is, so that means they were looking for him specifically. He’s heard of doctors being taken like this before. But in Somerset? They’re practically in the middle of nowhere. 

John wiggles his toes, moves his leg in small, gradual movements to reassure himself it’ll work if he has to run for it, and tries to relax his muscles, controls his breathing. He can do this.

True to their word they stop after a short ride, usher him outside, and have him walk into a building. John is clumsy walking without his cane and without seeing where he’s going, but they keep him close. They go up in a cramped lift and through a carpeted hallway where they open another door with a key card, and John is led inside and sat on a sofa.

He tenses when one of them leans over him, but all they do is remove the bag over his head. John has to blink his eyes against the sudden light and for a second all he sees is the outline of the woman, who cuts his ties with a knife. Her male friend has a red, already bruising line across his jaw. John’s cane, probably. John grins. 

Hands free, he immediately touches his forehead. He can feel a bump, hot and tender to the touch, but his hand comes away clean, no blood. Good. 

He’s in a hotel room, suite really, on what looks like the top floor. 

Across from him there’s a man in a three-piece suit, sipping from a steaming cup of tea. 

There are pictures on the table next to him, blown-up images from the Bake Off, both from within the tent as of John sitting at dinner, smiling at a black smudge of hair that’s Sherlock’s. So they had him watched? Why?

“Doctor John Watson.” The man says, oddly formal. 

He looks John over, eyes settling on the no doubt impressive bruise on his forehead. “First let me apologise, I explicitly stated that you were not to be harmed.” He eyes his goons, and they shift uncomfortably. 

“After all, you have to compete tomorrow, do you not? In the...” He carefully spells out the words “Great British Bake Off. Charming.” 

John doesn’t reply, and keeps his face even. He looks around the room, locates possible exits. As far as he can tell there is only the door they came in through, which is currently being guarded by the two who took him. 

“Tell me, what are your intentions towards Sherlock Holmes?” 

“My intentions towards _Sherlock_.” John can’t keep the surprise from his voice. Out of all the possible reasons they could have for kidnapping him, that one didn’t even feature on the list. 

“You are competing against each other, but still he has allowed you to try his work multiple times. You ate lunch together twice and a long dinner tonight. A pleasant one, I’m told. You’re... getting close.”

John is completely lost as to where this is going. “Why do you want to know?” 

The man smiles sourly at his question, “Oh, I’m an interested party.” 

John thinks. “And you’ve brought me here to what, intimidate me? You want me to leave him alone?” Ex-boyfriend? Current boyfriend? John can’t really imagine Sherlock with this man, but then how well do they really know each other?

“No, quite the contrary Doctor Watson, I want you to be his friend. Lover, if you are so inclined.” The man smiles again. It looks out of place on his face, as if it will slide off at any moment. 

John blinks, and studiously avoids even thinking about the ‘lover’ part, although some treacherous part of him reminds him that that was exactly what he had been thinking about just half an hour ago. “Why?” 

“You have met him. How many friends do you think he has?”

John doesn’t know, Sherlock is not particularly friendly to anyone but he seems highly intelligent, pleasant when he wants to be. 

“I’d be willing to pay a meaningful sum per week you stay close to Sherlock, check up on him, make him feel... happy.”

John frowns. “And why would you do that?”

The man sighs, leans back in his seat and takes a sip of tea. “Because I worry about him. Constantly.” 

John doesn’t believe him for a second. “Yeah, the answer is no.” 

“I haven’t even named a figure yet.” 

As if that’s going to make a difference. “You don’t need to, that’s insane. I’m not going to… to be friendly to him because I’ve been paid to. No.”

“Ah, but you will be… ‘friendly’?” 

“I don’t think that’s any of your business, frankly.” John is rapidly getting tired of this, this is just… crazy. “So if that’s all…” John gets up slowly, weary of his head and leg, and walks towards the two goons, still guarding the door. 

The woman hands him his cane. 

“Doctor Watson?”

John looks back. The man of the sofa has gone back to drinking his tea. Something almost sad crosses his face, although it’s gone in an instant. “Do give him my best.” 

 

\---

 

There is no secret that John knows of, of course. 

War is blood and hopelessness, the endless boredom of having every sense on high, of expecting an attack every second of every day, and never getting one. It’s longing for things that you are certain you have probably forgotten by now. Some idealised place called home that will never feel like it again because you have been changed, scraped and emptied from the inside out, replaced by a person who has seen too much. There is no going back, not truly. 

But what John writes is: “The secret to baking in wartime is the same as the secret to doing anything in wartime. Do it silently, smartly, use only what you need, be creative and be prepared to leave it all behind at a moment’s notice.” 

His blog gets a following of thousands within months. 

 

\---

 

John takes a taxi from the hotel (a Ramada Inn, great) back to the Bake Off grounds. It costs him his last forty quid. 

Once he’s dropped off at the entrance again he debates on what to do. It’s nearing midnight by now but he’s rather awake with adrenalin. He can’t decide whether what happened was important enough that Sherlock should know about it straight away. It already seems a bit ridiculous, as if he must have imagined at least some of it. But the bump on his forehead is very real. So is the headache building around his temples, and he knows that he should at least inform someone that he might have a concussion. 

When he’s in front of Sherlock’s door, John hesitates. He’s probably asleep already. Despite his claims of not needing much sleep, just like food John assumes that he must get to it at one point. So he compromises by knocking, but softly. 

It takes about half a minute for Sherlock to open the door. He looks rumpled, still in his trousers and shirt from earlier in the day but he has taken off his jacket, and his hair looks as if he’s been pulling at it. 

John doesn’t really know what to say. ‘Hello, I think you might like to know that I’ve been kidnapped by a lunatic earlier who offered me money to be nice to you.’ doesn’t quite seem to describe it. 

But Sherlock does it for him, “John!” His eyes scan his head and he frowns. “Your forehead. Concussion?” 

John shrugs, “Maybe. Probably not.” 

Sherlock walks back inside and throws himself down on his bed. It’s filled with journals, some cooking books, a laptop open to a website in Arabic, Sherlock’s coat and what looks like a pocket watch. 

John closes the door behind him, then peers out the window to see if there’s anyone outside still. He can almost see the place from where he was taken. He’s not sure if they’re still watching him. 

Sherlock looks at him from the bed. “You’re worried, don’t be, it’s fine.” 

“I’ve just been hit on the head, thrown into the back of a car, and interrogated about my connection to you in a Ramada hotel room. I think I’m allowed to be worried.” John’s not particularly upset actually, head wound and all he feels surprisingly good. Steady. 

“The Ramada?” Sherlock smiles briefly, “He must be slipping. Although, not much else around here, I suppose.”

“Right.” John touches his head. He should probably put something cold on that soon, it’s throbbing. “So you know who that was then?”

Sherlock’s voice goes soft. “The most dangerous man you’ve ever met.” 

Okay. John can work with that. “His name?”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock takes the pocket watch from his bed and places it on his nightstand carefully. “Holmes.”

“…Holmes.” John can’t believe this. “So that was what, your…” Husband, John thinks briefly, hysterically, “...your brother?” Now that he says it, he can see a vague resemblance. The same taste in expensive suits, certainly. A certain penchant for drama. 

“Yes.” 

“And this is a habit of his then, kidnapping?” John might have liked a warning really. 

“Only if he thinks you’re important.” Sherlock stars gathering the books around him into some sort of order. “Consider it a compliment.” 

John huffs out a laugh.

Sherlock takes a journal, opens it, then adds it to the pile. His voice sounds carefully nonchalant. “Did you take it?” 

“Take... what, the money? From him? Of course not.” John feels indignant that he’s even asking. 

“Pity.” Sherlock looks at him briefly. 

What? Did he want him to? John blinks. 

“We could have split the fee.” Sherlock throws him a little smile. “Think it through next time.”

John laughs, “Yes, the next time a madman offers me money to sleep with you I’ll accept then, shall I?”

“Hmm.” Sherlock is still smiling. 

There’s a pause. 

John thinks about, well. He licks his lips. 

But Sherlock takes his laptop, leans it on his knees and starts typing, so John settles on, “You’re still working then?” 

“Yes, I’m looking to make an Australian variation on an Egyptian Dukkah loaf.” Sherlock seems already immersed in his research again.

John’s own preparations are nowhere near that urgent that he needs to stay up all night, he already knows exactly what he wants to do. “Well... good luck with that?”

“Yes, goodnight, John.” Sherlock smiles quickly, and then looks back at his work. 

John walks back to his room feeling, oddly, a little giddy. He’s just gotten himself kidnapped, it’s the middle of the night and he has a throbbing headache, but he feels great. Alive. 

He sleeps better than he has in months. 

 

\---

 

John buys a gas oven, installs it in Harry’s tiny kitchen and starts baking again. He forces himself to bake no matter how raw he feels. To take pictures of the results, write down instructions and compile them into how-to blog posts. He does it because otherwise he doesn’t go mad but he goes nothing, disappears into the beige walls and faded sofa. It helps. 

Among his following there are soldiers at war right now. His old friends from Afghanistan, some in Iraq, a cook on a research station in Antarctica and two more on the North Pole. And they all want to know the same thing, how can I bake something tasting like home where I am now, with what I have around me. 

It spreads like wildfire. 

 

\---

 

The Showstopper Challenge

When John wakes up to his alarm’s insistent beeping he feels mostly fine, until he makes the mistake of moving. The cold washcloth he laid over his face last night has grown warm, droplets of water have rolled over his face and down in his neck and soaked his pillow. Sitting up radiates pain through his entire skull, his ears, even swallowing is painful. John stretches his leg, hobbles to the mirror and touches his face. The bruising isn’t anything unexpected, but it does look rather unappealing. 

Three painkillers, a shower and a new set of clothes later, he heads straight to the Bake Off tent. 

When he walks in, Molly is the first one to notice. She gasps and runs towards him. “Oh John! That looks awful! Are you all right?” The whole the tent looks up, most with concern in their eyes, although John catches a couple calculating stares. Some people there would love to get rid of him. 

Henry comes running as well, “That looks bad, are you ok, what happened?”

“I’m fine, it looks worse than it is really.” John scans the room for Sherlock. He’s in the very back, getting something out of a closet. “Just a stupid accident. I tripped outside, you know, my leg.” 

Sherlock doesn’t show that he heard the lie. Most people, Molly included, believe it straight away. John only sees Jim staring at him calculatingly, as if he knows that isn’t what a head wound after a fall looks like. John answers his stare evenly. 

Mrs. Hudson come over and tuts over him, “John, dear, are you going to be all right? Do you want to sit down?” 

Even Lestrade comes by briefly, accompanied by someone from production, to check whether he’ll be able to compete. They offer to delay the challenge for a couple hours if he wants to get it checked out by a doctor. John uses the handy fact that he is a doctor to get them to agree to let him stay, and soon the cameras turn on, and they’re off again.

“Bakers, this is the final day of bread week! You will have four hours in which you have to make an elaborately decorated loaf that could serve as the centrepiece for a party.” 

John is making a spiced sultana and honey Christmas wreath, one he’s made many times before, and one he loves really. 

“Ready, get set, bake!” 

He can’t move very fast without noticing the pain, so he prepares to work slow and steady today. He gets all of his ingredients handy, keeps the bending to a minimum. No running around. He eats a little too, the painkillers are churning unhappily in his stomach. 

John looks at Sherlock and briefly imagines baking like he does, falling on his knees without a thought to check the oven, running and weaving through the tent, bending and straining and turning. It’s like a dream. 

John mixes his dough in a bowl by hand, adds in the right ingredients, kneads it, makes some marzipan, all mostly on automatic pilot. The painkillers are working now, he can tell. 

Without a conscious decision, his eyes drift off to Sherlock again. He’s busy at work, pounding his dough with a wooden hammer, and for some reason after that switches to a _horse whip_. Sherlock’s face is twisted in concentration, and bits of flour are drifting to his sleeves, even to his hair as he hits it repeatedly. The cameras are zoomed in on him, and for good reason. John feels his mouth fall open just looking at him. 

Focus! John takes a rolling pin out and rolls his dough into a rectangle. Then looks again from the corner of his eye, but Sherlock seems to be done for now. Shame. 

John gets his soaked sultanas, pistachios, some orange zest and the marzipan and spreads them out, then rolls it up into a large roll, careful to get the filling in every layer. Then slices the roll, turns it over so the layered effect of the filling is visible, and puts into the proving drawer. 

He cleans up, has a drink from the bottle of water they provide, and looks around. 

Molly is getting out a peacock-shaped mould for her dough and buttering it. Henry is chopping up onions and garlic. He’s rather clumsy with the knife. Jim is using a rolling pin to meticulously spread his dough until the breaking point, covering over half his counter. Soo Lin is making two types of dough today, one sweet and one savoury, and while her savoury one has gone in the proving drawer she has only just selected her ingredients for the sweet one. Sally’s has gone in to prove as well, and she’s over at Molly’s counter, having a chat. 

John turns around, and gets a chance to see the last of Angelo’s technique as he finishes up his dough. He’s throwing it up in the air, turning between his raised hands like a pizza. Angelo sees him looking, and says, “I learnt this in Italy, from my grandfather also with the name of Angelo, remember, I tell you the story of him and the fish.” 

John says, “Ah, yes, right.” He doesn’t remember at all. 

Then looks over at Sherlock again. Sherlock’s dough has gone in to prove as well, and he’s holding one of his hand-drawn manuals. They’re not allowed to bring any cookbooks or printed recipes into the tent with them, so most of them write a simple recipe by hand, but it looks as if Sherlock has gone all out again, he has a bunch of papers, and he is writing even more into the sidelines. 

John takes a breath. He just knows that if he doesn’t go over to him now he’s going to keep wanting to, so he takes the couple steps. 

Sherlock sounds preoccupied, “John.”

John mentally kicks himself again for not at least _trying_ something last night. That dinner was great. Sherlock is gorgeous, even the curve of his lips is, John imagines running his finger over them, pausing in the little dip. Then tilting his head up to... 

Sherlock’s eyes flicker towards him. “You’ve been distracted all morning.” 

“Well, yeah.” John says. “My head.”

“No, you slept unusually well and you’re used to pain.” Sherlock says it as if it is a completely normal topic of conversation. 

John looks around at all the people around them, all working or chatting, Molly has left her counter and she and Sally are laughing over at Soo Lin’s now, Angelo is still within hearing distance but not paying them any attention. He might as well. John lowers his voice, leans in a little, and says, “It’s, um, you that’s distracting me.” 

Sherlock frowns. “Why?” 

Because you’re incredibly attractive and you were intensely whipping dough just now. “I’d think that’s fairly obvious.” 

“Is it?” Sherlock looks at him. “Wait- it _is_.” He seems surprised. 

So he wasn’t expecting that? God, maybe he’s straight. John hadn’t even considered that, with Mycroft hinting at the lover thing. 

Sherlock scrapes his throat. Then doesn’t say anything else, just... looks. 

“Is that... right, not good then?” John asks. Did he really read that so wrong? Fuck. What was he even thinking, flirting with someone like Sherlock. John makes certain not to show his disappointment too much, surely they can be friends, still. It’s fine. 

But then Sherlock seems to have found his voice again, “I find you very attractive as well, John.” 

Oh! “Really.” John feels a smile take over his face. 

Sherlock smiles back slowly, a little uncertain still but his eyes are lighting up more the longer John looks at him. 

John sees one of the cameras aimed at them. He’s not sure if it’s filming or just standing there but he can’t lean in any closer. He can’t kiss Sherlock. Shouldn’t touch him, not here, not if he doesn’t want it broadcasted on national TV. “Um.” He looks at the camera. “Should we... right, we’ll talk about this later?” 

Sherlock nods, and John walks back to his counter slowly, feeling the curious prickle of Sherlock’s eyes on his back, his whole body alive with the tension of it. 

Two hours to go. 

 

\---

 

John spends his days baking eggless cakes and flourless cakes and sugarless cakes. He bakes on low heat and high heat, in short bursts and overnight. He visits anything from his local Indian grocer to large army specialty stores, all stocked from the floor to the ceiling with food, heaps and heaps of it just waiting to be consumed, and feels sick at the sheer enormity of it. 

Then comes the day that he posts a picture of a pie that he cropped wrong because it still has his cane placed beside it. It spars a debate on post-traumatic stress and war injuries that goes on for days, and John gets overwhelmed with hundreds of messages of support, people saying, “I understand,” and “Me, too.” 

He doesn’t know how to reply to any of them. 

 

\---

 

John’s Christmas wreath comes out of the oven looking wonderful. It’s a deep golden colour and it smells delicious. John squeezes his oranges, mixes the fresh juice with icing sugar to pour over the top while it cools, and adds honey, together with some loose pistachios, roasted almonds and powdered sugar as decoration, all feeling elated. He suspects that he’s never going to be able to look at a Christmas wreath again without remembering this one. 

He finishes about five minutes before time is called, cleans up his counter, puts the baking tray in the sink to soak, and waits. 

Sherlock’s Dukkah Loaf needs to have olive oil with a mix of herbs in it poured on top before serving, but he hasn’t done it so far, he might be waiting until the last possible moment. John meets his eye for a second, and then looks away again. He feels hot, and takes off his jumper.

It’s a crazy scramble for most people today. Soo Lin’s sweet and savoury bread has just come out of the oven, and she still has to decorate both ends. Henry’s garlic and onion bread is still in the oven, Henry tense in front of it. Jim has put his bread from the oven straight into the fridge. Sally’s garlic bread looks nice sitting on the end of her counter, good colour, but for decoration she has done nothing but place a strand of oven baked cherry tomatoes on top. Molly’s peacock seems to be coming together, it’s has held its shape well, she’s glazing it with a brush and some orange liquid. Angelo places his bread in the shape of a sun on the end of his bench with a loving expression. 

And then, “Three, two, one, that’s it bakers, hands off!” Finally. 

The judging starts in the back, and Sherlock is up first. He must have known because he pours his olive oil just as the judges appear. “So, a Dukkah loaf, that’s Egyptian you say?” 

_Also Australian_ , John adds in his head. 

Sherlock launches into a fast and detailed explanation of herbs and authentic techniques he used. By the time they taste it the judges look a little glassy-eyed, although the taste is very interesting and the bake well done. 

Second is Angelo, whose Picasso Sun Bread looks stunning, and the judges immediately respond to it. “This might be one of the most original breads I’ve ever seen, beautifully executed.” They think the taste is “a delight, sublime,” and Angelo looks to be about bursting with pride. 

Then they’re at John’s counter. “So, John, how is your head?” Mrs. Hudson still seems to be fretting over it. 

“It’s fine.” John smiles. It’s actually not nearly as bad as his leg usually is, and he is feeling generally quite high right now.

Lestrade likes to get straight to the point. “So this is a Christmas wreath? I can see the sultanas.”

“Spiced sultanas, I soaked them for several days in advance, and honey, yeah.” 

They cut into the surface, and it crackles and crumbles perfectly. “Nice bake,” Lestrade comments, he turns his piece over, “The bottom is done well.” 

Mrs. Hudson takes a bite, “Hmmm, yes that takes you straight to Christmas, doesn’t it? Lovely decoration as well, I can see this as a centrepiece for certain.” 

Lestrade nods, “Yeah, great job, that works.” John breathes out slowly in relief. Distracted or no, this is important. He did well. 

They move over to Molly, whose glazed peacock bread looks lovely, but once they cut into it, it becomes obvious that it is underbaked and the consistency is dense and doughy, probably because of the orange juice she added before proving.

Sally’s bread looks good, John thinks, but Lestrade takes the tomatoes on top off and then there’s just the loaf left, no other decoration, and they come down on her for that. Four hours just to bake a loaf is quite a lot if she’s not even going to try to do anything to it. The taste is fine, although expected. 

Henry looks nervous next to his garlic and onion ‘tear and share’ creation, it is a little plain as well but he’s had the foresight to make two different dips and presenting them around the bread, together with some cheese sprinkled on top. They try it, but comment that it has too much moisture on the inside from the fresh onions and that it’s underbaked. John thinks that if it’s between the two of them Sally has done the worst today, but it’s hard to say really. He likes Henry better, but Sally is probably a better competitor. 

Soo Lin’s ‘sweet and savoury yin and yang bread’ is not decorated much either, it’s obvious she only had time to just sprinkle some things on top and call it a day but the two flavours are nice, although they don’t exactly work together. 

Last is Jim. His multi-layered cheese Pane Carasau is a tad lopsided, and he looks positively murderous about it. The judge’s comments are still good, John thinks, they enjoy the taste. But bread really is a specialty apart, and most of them are not very familiar with it. 

The judges leave to deliberate, and John immediately looks to Sherlock, but Henry comes over before Sherlock can. He looks anxious. “You think I did enough to stay? I really don’t want to go yet, I did better this week than last, I really feel as if I’m learning so much…” 

Then Molly joins them. “Nice, John,” she says, “Looks very good. How are you feeling?” 

Angelo comes too, and Henry congratulates him on his bake, “That looks out of this world!”

John looks up again, and sees Sherlock holding a plate with small portion of his bread, looking at him. 

Oh, he wants to taste. John motions him over. 

Sherlock places the plate on John’s counter, and John tears off a small piece with his fingers and sticks it in his mouth. The first taste is soft, but the spices build and bloom into a beautiful, intense flavour. John looks at Sherlock and says, “Delicious.” 

Sherlock moves a little closer to him. 

“Amazing.”

Sherlock’s leg bumps into his, and John leans into it a little. 

Angelo takes his sun bread and puts it on John’s counter right between the both of them. “Taste! Yes, you can all taste!” 

John grins, tears a piece of Angelo’s bread as well, puts it in his mouth, and then brushes his fingers against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock looks up sharply.

God, it feels like playing footsie or something. 

John offers his bake to everyone as well. And by the time the judges return they’re all eating from each other’s work, laughing and comparing, and John is stroking the side of Sherlock’s hand hidden underneath the counter, Sherlock’s thigh trembling against his. 

 

\---

 

It’s the readers of his blog who persuade him to audition for the Great British Bake Off. John doesn’t want to at first. He thinks that he doesn’t have the slightest chance, but winning would mean moving out of Harry’s depressing flat, back to London. Exposure for his blog, and if he does well enough possibly a job somewhere. 

And it sounds so much better than ‘retired veteran, disabled, bakes from his sister’s kitchen’, so John signs up, not expecting much. 

He gets selected immediately. 

 

\---

 

They all gather in front of the judge’s table, just like last week, and Mrs Hudson takes the lead, smiling kindly. “I have the honour of announcing our star baker today.” 

Some people stand up a little straighter, but John is quite sure it isn’t going to be him. 

“We’re hoping we’ll get another hug out of this, come on down… Angelo!” 

Angelo beams, runs towards Mrs. Hudson and hugs her enthusiastically, and then Lestrade again, who laughs. John sees Angelo wipe away a tear in between his giant smile. He really deserves it. 

“And now, for the not so pleasant part,” Lestrade sounds serious. “We have decided to say goodbye to just one baker today.” 

John looks at Henry, and he can tell that some others are too. Henry shuffles uncomfortably. 

“Sally, I’m sorry, it’s you.” 

Sally nods, and seems more accepting than John would have predicted, “I thought… Yeah, it’s really hard to combine this with a fulltime job, I just didn’t have time enough to prepare.”

“You did your best, dear.” Mrs. Hudson says, and walks up to hug her too. 

Lestrade looks into the camera and says, “Next week: Pies and Tarts!”

John gets a strong and elated hug from Angelo, a relieved one from Henry, and goodbyes from pretty much everyone else. 

And as the cameras get turned off and stowed away and most everyone leaves the tent, Sherlock looks at him, and takes a long time cleaning up his counters and gathering his things, so John stalls as well, so much that he packs and unpacks the same bag of nuts five times. 

But when the production assistant finally steps outside to check on something, busy in conversation with Lestrade, John watches until the second they clear the tent. Then walks over, meets Sherlock halfway, puts his hand in his neck, pulls him down and kisses him. It’s glorious. Just a press of lips, a flash of tongue and they already have to stop because the voices of some camera crew are getting closer.

They’re both breathing hard.

John reaches out and ruffles Sherlock’s hair so that the flour falls out of it. Sherlock makes a sound of indignance, then pulls him closer again and lightly licks his neck. 

They’re both laughing when Mrs. Hudson comes in. 

They walk out of the tent and to the parking lot together. John carrying several bags worth of bread related things that he can’t leave behind because he might need them this week, and Sherlock a heavy crate of instruments. 

John does feel beat, exhaustion is dragging at his shoulders, his leg, head, even his hand is sore from using his cane extensively, but that wild feeling of attraction weaving through his chest doesn’t seem to go away. John glances at Sherlock. 

Sherlock glances back.

They walk to the tree line, just out of sight of the tent and Sherlock drops his supplies, John laughs again, and Sherlock pulls him in. They kiss in a short, hot burst of air. John softens his lips, and Sherlock touches his tongue to his achingly gentle, then harder, takes control of the kiss, pulls him into it. God. John can smell Sherlock, feel the tickle of his curls, the smooth shape of his lips to his. He hasn’t kissed like this in ages. 

John would be content to drag it out for quite a while, to lie down right here in the cold grass. Or go back inside the castle, find a bed and do this leisurely for hours on end.

But his taxi is waiting. The train ticket is in his pocket and he can’t afford another one, not after last night’s taxi ride. “Sherlock, I have to go.” John makes sure that his voice betrays that he really, really does not want to. 

“I know, with current traffic you have three more minutes.” Sherlock uses his hands to tilt John’s head upwards and kisses him again, puts his leg between John’s, drags his hands over his arse and it’s a bit dirty and heated and _Jesus_. John feels that one reverberate the whole way back to the parking lot. 

He doesn’t catch his breath until he’s in his taxi, already regretting that he didn’t stay.

He can’t _wait_ until next week.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Pies and Tarts (Mycroft)

 

 

The Signature Bake

“Good morning, bakers!” 

Mycroft settles in his hotel room sofa with a fresh cup of tea and watches as the cameras pick up every move from inside the Bake Off tent. He has cameras of his own all over the castle grounds of course, assistants placed inside the production team, someone bribed here and there, but as long as they’re baking simply hacking the live feeds is enough. 

Mrs. Hudson seems cheery, and there’s even a watery sun in the sky today. 

Sherlock is standing behind his counter in a streamlined suit and apron. His hands are stretched out before him and tapping out a complicated rhythm on the wood, the only sign that he’s feeling tense. 

Mycroft knows that he’s been practising like a man obsessed. Sherlock tends to destroy all hidden cameras around Baker Street but Mycroft is allowed a few in the kitchen now, so he catches glimpses of Sherlock all day. Baking away, hour after hour, day and night, mumbling to himself, writing down variations and ideas, occasionally asleep with his head on the kitchen table surrounded by flour, too tired to move. 

“Our signature challenge will feature a classic, the Tarte Tatin or upside-down fruit tart. You can use any sort of filling you like, and you have two and a half hours to bake it in.” 

He has made this particular tart at least ten times in the last week, Mycroft knows. 

“Ready, Set, Bake!”

Sherlock moves immediately, starts peeling some mangoes, the knife quick and elegant between his fingers. He glances at John while he works, one corner of his mouth pulled slightly higher than the other into a pleased little smile. 

Sherlock’s feeling positively _social_ these days, Mycroft thinks uncomfortably. And that’s why he’s here. All of it.

John is getting out some pears, and yes, unsubtly looks back at what Sherlock is doing and smiles.

Atypical behaviour. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft is an accident. Mummy is in the middle of her second PhD when he comes along, so it’s Dad who stays home those first few years, who wanders around the house wrongly sorting laundry, burning dinner and forgetting groceries. And maybe because Mycroft needs to be, he’s an easy child. He doesn’t ask to be held. He rarely cries. He teaches himself to read when he is three and spends exactly fourteen minutes in nursery school before Mummy sighs and says, “You’re going to be bored, aren’t you?”

So Mycroft gets to grow up on his own, perfectly content between their library, Dad’s occasional absent-minded “Love you, son” and Mummy’s carefully typed lesson plans and interrogations about what he knows and what he doesn’t. Both of them forget that it would probably be best for him to interact with others every once in a while, but then that problem gets sorted too. 

When he’s seven, he gets a brother. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft never enjoyed baking much himself. Because of Sherlock he knows the techniques of course, and he can spot the contestants mistakes before they make them. Molly is carefully slicing bananas. Soo Lin has guava fruit. Henry and Angelo are busy peeling apples. Jim is the first one to get his frying pan on the heat and sprinkle in the sugar, butter and spices. 

It’s somewhat relaxing, even, to watch others do this. There’s very little that’s dire about the baking of a cake, Mycroft thinks. Although Sherlock might disagree with him on that. 

They have to stir the buttery sauce until it separates and the sugar caramelises into a toffee-like colour. Everyone using fruits is still peeling and chopping, but Jim has chosen to use figs and walnuts, so he’s ahead of the rest. Mycroft watches them for a couple minutes, then turns back to work. He can’t afford to stop, of course. 

He answers a call, some politics in North Korea, nothing major but he makes a note of it, and when he looks again everyone has put their fruits into the pan along with the caramel. Sherlock’s mangoes seem like they should be too soft to be caramelised but the way he has cut them, into thin rectangles, helps them to keep their shape. He’s practised that too, Mycroft has seen triangles, balls, and cubes of varying size pass by this week.

221b’s kitchen is tiled a dark green. It’s lit by fluorescent light, cramped, dusty and there are things on the floor that stick to Mycroft’s shoes, but it always smells like heaven, he thinks. Dark waves of chocolate, the thin scent of sugar, tartness of fruit, things sizzling and becoming. He wonders if the Bake Off tent smells like that, once they get going. A cacophony of scents, all layering together. 

The goal is to arrange the fruit in a baking form first, then lay the thin layer of pastry on top and bake it that way. Some are just laying down the fruit whichever way it will go, but others are more careful to create a pattern. 

Soo Lin’s guavas have gone dense while cooking, so she is cutting them into pieces before arranging them. Jim’s figs have gone soft with caramelizing them and look quite unappealing, although perhaps the added crunch and bitterness of the walnuts will work. 

Molly’s bananas look simple, but she is trying to line them up as well as she can into a circle pattern. She has an eye for detail, Mycroft thinks, but tends to get distracted by details over looking at the big picture. She’s also much too nice, picking up some peels Sherlock has carelessly thrown over his counter and putting them in the bin without saying anything. Sherlock doesn’t even notice. 

Angelo has opted to use whole apples so he is cooking them longer than the others. Henry’s apples are already sliced and arranged. 

John, as the only one who is choosing to make something savoury in this challenge, puts his pears in first and then spreads a thin layer of Roquefort cheese on them. It seems like quite a leap to think that a sharp cheese like that will work with the cloy sweetness of the caramel, but John seems self-assured as always, doing what he likes and nothing more. 

Mycroft can appreciate the economy of John’s movements, the steady pace of his hands. John’s a good baker, confident. But he can’t see what it is about him that has Sherlock so interested. Why Sherlock wants _him_ , when he hasn’t wanted anyone in a long time. 

Mycroft watches John roll out his pastry for long minutes, then goes to sit behind his desk and fills out some paperwork. Mainly documents that are too sensitive for digital safekeeping and need to be read and signed by hand, however tedious that might be. 

He swallows. He hasn’t eaten yet today. 

 

\---

 

When Mycroft’s brother is born, they name him William. 

Mycroft disagrees and calls him by his middle name from day one, because at least ‘Sherlock’ sounds special and he doesn’t want an ordinary brother, after all. He wants a great one. 

It sticks, and Sherlock makes an awful lot of noise right from the start. He screams and groans and screeches. He cries until he is fed, then drinks and spits half of it out again into sour smelling stains onto his bedding and Dad’s jumper. He’s always awake, always urgently _unhappy_ , somehow. 

Mycroft doesn’t understand wanting to make something better so much that you’d do anything, until Sherlock. He peers over the edge of the crib and reaches out to touch him. He shushes him, lets his sharp little nails scratch him, lets him lead his finger into his tiny mouth and suck on it greedily, large eyes looking into Mycroft’s, around the crib, to his mobile.

Mycroft sneaks out of his bed and into Sherlock’s room when he hears his endless wails at night. Takes him out of his crib and holds his tiny body to his chest for as long as he dares, the house around them dark and quiet, his feet like ice on the stone floor, shivering in his thin pyjamas. Sometimes he tells him he loves him. 

It doesn’t make him scream any less.

 

\---

 

Mycroft works until the tarts are ready to come out of the oven. They have to be able to set and cool down for a while before being turned over and served, but as usual most bakers are cutting it awfully close to the time limit. 

Molly has taken hers out already, again proving that bananas, while safe, were one of the better choices because they’re not so dense. Henry’s goes next, then John’s pear and cheese creation. Sherlock waits quite long, again he lost time on the arranging of the bake, no matter how meticulously he times himself in 221b he’s always slower when it matters, but when it comes out the mangoes look like they have held consistency. 

Soo Lin and Angelo are in the most trouble, she because of using the dense fruit and he because of the size of his pieces, but they too get their bakes out before it’s too late. 

Turning the tart upside down is _le moment suprême_ because if it does not want to turn, or falls apart, the entire bake is over. Jim’s turns like a stone, which is probably not a good sign for how it will taste. Molly nearly drops hers when it sloshes out of its mould all of a sudden, but she manages to hold on and kind of push it back into the right shape. Sherlock is meticulous about turning his, using a thin, beautifully engraved icing spatula to separate it from the edges first. It turns in one piece but some juice runs out from under it and forms a small puddle under the tray, it seems like it is wet inside. Angelo’s is a disaster, it’s big and heavy and tears, it nearly breaks in two. 

They all get it done in time though, and Mycroft turns the volume up for the judging. 

Jim’s fig and walnut Tarte Tatin is indeed dense, and the consistency of the figs looks highly unappealing. 

Mycroft dislikes Jim. He has run a background check on him of course, but it had been spotless. Not that that means much, there are plenty of faults that don’t leave a trace, and he suspects that Jim has more than a few. It’s in the way he talks, the way he schools his face around the judges. 

Soo Lin is next, her guavas have against expectation held out well, they are a little tough to slice but the taste is surprisingly crunchy and different, and she gets a good review. She smiles. 

Then they’re on to Henry, whose thin apple slices are overcooked. But he does look more animated than usual, not as terrified of the judges as in the beginning, nor as drugged as on day two or as self-conscious as the last weekend. Mycroft thinks a certain lady and his infatuation might have something to do with that, even though they’ve barely shared more than a couple conversations as far as he can tell. Henry looks at her hopefully, but Molly is too busy pulling her hair into a messy ponytail and smiling at Sherlock, who doesn’t even notice that she’s there. Ah, the irony. 

Molly’s banana tart looks nice, golden colour and the slices of banana peeking through, but the flavour is a little one-note, which is a common problem when relying on only one ingredient. She nods dutifully. 

Sherlock is up next. He did well in bread week, especially for bread being one of the things he rarely made before the Bake Off, so Mycroft is perfectly sure that he is going to make it through this week as well, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to be so certain himself. 

He has added spice on top of his tarte, Mycroft can see a light dusting of chilli flakes as the camera zooms in on it. It looks great. Mycroft shifts uneasily. 

Lestrade cuts into the tarte, and yes, “The mangoes have added quite a bit of moisture. Not as much as I might have thought, mind, and the flavour works, with the sharp sweetness of the caramel, the softer mango and then a hint of heat.” 

“It was a brave idea, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson says, “A Tarte Tatin with mangoes, you’re always so inventive, and it does work.” Of course Mrs. Hudson is already, rather inexplicably, fond of Sherlock. But her judging seems to be fair above all, Mycroft thinks. 

John is the picture of calm as usual. He unconsciously falls back into a military stance when judged, every time. 

John’s pear and Roquefort savoury Tarte Tatin slices beautifully. The judges taste, and taste again, and then declare John’s bake to be absolutely delicious. The cheese really compliments the other flavours, apparently, and his risk has paid off. 

The last to be judged is Angelo, star baker last time but rather clumsy with everything that is not bread, Mycroft thinks, and he is proven right when Angelo’s split whole-apple monstrosity turns out to be undercooked on the inside and much too wet. 

The official cameras turn off, and Mycroft has an idea what will happen as soon as the judging is done, so he watches closely. 

As he has done for the last two weeks, John walks over to Sherlock’s counter to have a taste of his bake and, although Mycroft is sure you’d have to know Sherlock extremely well to notice, Sherlock’s practically squirming with impatience for John to get there. 

Sherlock slowly slices him a piece, looks at John, and then explicitly doesn’t offer him a fork. 

John, after a vague look of uncertainty, takes a slice of the still-warm desert with his fingers and brings it to his lips. Sherlock watches, and, at John’s first bite, audibly sighs. 

Mycroft feels a grinding heat in his stomach, and quickly looks away to go over emails on his phone. Important ones, probably.

“That’s lovely Sherlock. Juicy. Hot.” John is trying for innuendo. 

It is definitely working. It has much more to do with John eating than with whatever he says, Mycroft knows, but this is doing it for Sherlock. Of course it is. 

“So you like it then?” Sherlock’s voice sounds deep. Thrilled. 

“Yes, it’s amazing, you always make the best things, Sherlock.” John is good at this sort of simple, genuine-sounding praise.

“Do you want more?” Sherlock is a little breathless by now. 

Say yes, Mycroft thinks, eat the whole tarte while he watches you, while he opens your trousers and jerks you off. No one would know. I’ll make sure no one enters that tent. 

But John laughs, “No, thanks, it’s time for lunch, come on, we can sit outside today.” 

Mycroft looks up at the screen in time to catch Sherlock’s frustrated expression.

 

\---

 

Sherlock doesn’t talk until he is three, but Mycroft reads to him anyway, he holds him, he bathes him and carries him in the garden and puts him down for naps. Then one day Sherlock looks up and recites the whole four pages that Mycroft has just read from beginning to end, and Mycroft’s relieved beyond words. 

He doesn’t know what he would have done with a truly stupid brother. 

Sherlock soon becomes a whirlwind, running from one place to the next as fast as his legs will go. Mycroft regularly wakes up to Sherlock jumping on his bed, hugging him, talking his ear off about the books he’s read, what he’s thinking, why the moon is so far away. Mycroft bans him from his room when he hits puberty and would like a bit more privacy, thank you very much, but Sherlock learns how to open locks with a hairpin. Mycroft steals his hairpin. The next night Sherlock uses a toothpick. 

At five Sherlock is still surprisingly childish, emotional, clingy at times. But he reads at an adult level, he can memorise entire compositions, he wants to learn how to sword fight, how bodies are made, and what’s on the inside of worms. Mummy thinks it is absolutely disgusting when Sherlock buries dead animals to exhume them later and collect their bones, but Mycroft doesn’t think it’s too bad. Not as bad as the ones he sets on fire, anyway. That’s around the time Dad decides they should really try and make friends their own age, too. 

Which, unsurprisingly, turns out traumatic for everyone involved. 

 

\---

 

The Technical Challenge

Mycroft has lunch himself, a quick sandwich brought up by room service, and handles two conference calls. The last one runs late, Middle Eastern conflict, tedious, and he’s almost too late turning the volume back on, Mrs. Hudson is already presenting the next challenge. He will get notes about what was said at lunch, of course, and sound bites if it turns out to be important or interesting. 

“… challenge today will be to create a miniature pork pie, and you have two hours to do it in. Good luck, bakers!” 

Mycroft knows that savoury foods are not Sherlock’s forte; he’s much more of a French patissier than he is a common pie baker. Sherlock seems to be thinking the same thing, frowning furiously at the recipe. 

It seems deceivingly simple. Make the dough, shape it around a mould, fill with pork meat and gelatine and bake. 

John is actually smiling. Remembering, Mycroft thinks. It sounds like the kind of thing people like him would eat. 

It turns out to be surprisingly difficult. Everyone is at about the same level when it comes to making the dough and pressing it around the mould, but the problem seems to be in getting it to come off. Molly starts pushing and prodding at hers, and helplessly looks around the tent. Henry has already pulled too hard at his and ripped it, so he is rolling his dough out to try again. Jim is looking around with a pensive expression, digs through a drawer and gets some olive oil to smear over the point where the mould and dough meet. It works at first, but then the oil mingles with the dough, making it slick and soft, and the round form of dough puddles into itself once it’s off. 

John is the one who comes up with the solution, giving the mould a little shake, then a pull, then a shake, and so forth, until it suddenly comes off in one perfectly shaped piece. Sherlock, who had been observing everyone else before even attempting to touch his, copies John and manages to get it off looking fairly round and straight. 

Then the meat goes in, and the heated gelatine, but gelatine is runny before it sets, so even the smallest hole or tear in the dough creates an oozing effect that seems to happen to nearly everyone. Henry’s is the worst, his multiple tries to get the mould right have overworked the dough and made it crumbly so the gelatine just runs out through the cracks. Soo Lin has a nicely shaped pie, but as soon as she fixes one small crack another one appears and she can’t keep ahead of it. Molly has worked around the problem by shaping her dough by hand and making the edges much thicker so that the gelatine stays in. It seems to have worked, but it will most likely make the end result too dense. 

Angelo tries to refrigerate his gelatine briefly before putting it into the pie, which seems like a good idea except that it turns out lumpy. Sherlock puts another pot on the heat, opens a bottle with an unmarked white power and mixes in some egg whites. He then takes a brush, and adds a generous layer of it on the bottom, holds it up with his fingertips while it dries and then does the sides before pouring his gelatine in. It seems to work, because he puts it in the oven looking pleased with his own superior genius- a look Mycroft is well familiar with. 

All the pies, oozing gelatine or not, go into the oven, leaving a lull of activity during which Mycroft calls Anthea to check up on the office, and the latest gossip and rumours about various countries leaders, political and otherwise. 

People don’t realise this, but whole governments are run on word of mouth. Information used to charm, to threaten, to bribe, to infuriate. All it takes is to say the right things to the right people, like pulling a small string, and watch the dominoes fall. And Mycroft is good at watching. Patient. 

Britain is only as good as the people who run it from the shadows, and that had been a sobering idea, once. Now it is a comfort. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft is thirteen when Sherlock starts baking. Or well, purposefully gives him food poisoning. 

When Dad finds Sherlock in Mycroft’s bed that morning and Sherlock whispers, “Don’t wake him up, he needs to sleep, he’s sick.” He thinks it is sweet for him to worry so. 

When Mummy hears the story, she assumes that Sherlock’s feeling guilty for what he’s done. 

But the only one who gets it right is Mycroft, who wakes up to Sherlock’s small arms wrapped around him, his eager eyes and a barrage of questions, everything from “How much do you think you vomited? Only the cake or more?” to “Did you know that eggs left out into the sun can make you sick?” and realises it isn’t remorse at all. It’s _delight_. 

So Mycroft learns to manage it, Sherlock’s need for destruction. More than anything he understands Sherlock wanting to feel powerful, so he deals with the vomiting, the aches, the chills. Hiding it is easy enough. It’s even pleasurable, when they’re lying in bed together, Sherlock gently feeding him homemade burned caramels, Sherlock’s small hand reverently touching his face and calling him “My brother.” 

Mycroft doesn’t realise what he’s started. 

Not yet. 

 

\---

 

The miniature pork pies leave the oven around the same time and then get brought to the judging table. The results, as always, vary wildly. Molly brings up a small, little packet of a pie. John’s is a well-risen, golden brown creation. And on the other hand of the scale are some that are barely recognisable as being pie-like, Henry’s bake has little pools of gelatine still oozing out of the cracks in the crust, Soo Lin’s has it too but to a lesser extent, and Jim’s looks more like a flatbread than it does a pie. 

The judges enter, and Lestrade has to hold back a laugh. It really looks that bad. “Seems like some of you had a hard time, I’d wager?”

They go about cutting the pies in two where possible, some of them just need a little pressure to burst into a thick soup-like consistency, and taste. Angelo’s looks fine from the outside, but his gelatine has congested on the inside, leaving large clumps of it in between the meat, making it particularly unappealing. Molly’s tastes nice, the added layers of dough seem to have saved her, except that it is very small. John’s is the biggest and best to look at, and slices to reveal perfect layers of crust and filling. 

Sherlock’s looks as if it’s being held together by sheer force of will, and has a bizarre bright yellow shine. The judges seem a little puzzled by it, tapping the crust, then tasting. “I don’t know what this baker did,” Mrs. Hudson says. “It’s certainly worked to keep the gelatine in, but the crunch of the crust is completely gone.”

Lestrade turns it over, “No soggy bottom though, it seems to be well baked.” He’s still frowning. Mycroft thinks it was some sort of edible plastic. He’s not certain though. 

They take a moment to confer, and then announce the results, from worst to best. In seventh place is Henry, who is looking rather resigned about the whole thing. Sixth is Angelo, and Mycroft wonders how long either of them will be able to last in this competition, his money is on Henry leaving today although it could go either way. Fifth is Jim, who pretends not to care one way or another but very obviously does. Fourth is Soo Lin, who immediately smiles at Molly. 

Third place goes to Sherlock, and he’s probably lucky that there were some serious disasters this time to make them overlook the use of a non-specified method. 

Second is indeed Molly, who is a decent technical baker but almost seems surprised by it herself. And the winner is John. It’s the first time he’s won a technical bake, and he seems chuffed. He gets hugs all around, or at least from Henry, Angelo and Molly. He approaches Sherlock as well, who folds his arms around John and lets go again after a quick brush of his body. Sherlock has never voluntarily hugged anyone in his life, Mycroft thinks. 

Except in bed of course, a warm, live presence against his side. 

John looks a little flushed despite the short contact. Already thinking of tonight, most likely. 

Mycroft turns the screens off now that they’re leaving the tent, and catches up on the lunch transcript (nothing too interesting, getting to know you bits and pieces, Sherlock not exactly lying but omitting nearly everything about his reasons for baking). 

Mycroft gets up, stretches his legs a bit, makes phone calls from the hall, reads up on what the American secret service has been up to so far today, then the German council meeting, and eats a couple bites of unappealing hotel food before giving up and pouring himself a glass of whiskey. He suspects he’s going to need it. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft becomes fat. He goes through puberty tasting everything Sherlock serves him, often eating the entire batch of cookies, the entire cake or pie in one sitting while Sherlock looks on avidly. It’s addictive, for both of them. Competitive and comforting in one. It makes him feel full and warm. Grounded. Cared for. Sherlock is the only one who touches him at all, who cuddles up to him, puts his head on his stomach, completely unashamed of loving him. 

And Mycroft enjoys it, being heavy. He is so clearly, painfully smarter than every single person he meets that it’s genuine relief not to have to interact with them. To retreat into his layers of self and the vague sense of disgust with which people treat him now. It makes them easy not to care about. It makes him strong. 

Mycroft likes putting his hands on the full folds of his own belly. He likes grabbing the layers of fat on his back, watching his sturdy knees and ankles. There’s something depraved about it. The grotesque. He makes himself come that way, thinking of blobs of fat, grease, sugar, butter. 

Sherlock’s thin fingers pressing food into his mouth. 

 

\---

 

The microphone in Sherlock’s room crackles to life just as Mycroft’s on the last page of a translation of an underground Russian pamphlet, detailing people being pulled out of their beds in the middle of the night and forced at gunpoint to step into unmarked army vehicles. It’s not one of theirs, so Mycroft sends it on for someone to look into, then directs his full attention to what’s being said, and turns on the screen as well. 

John looks rumpled, a leaf in his hair and some traces of vegetation, possibly tree bark, visible on the back of his jumper. He sounds a little indignant, but it’s doing a poor job of hiding his excitement underneath “... next time you intend to drag me into the trees again to snog me away from the cameras maybe let me know about the plan beforehand.” 

Sherlock obviously knows it’s all just bustle and not dislike, and his face looks alive behind John’s back. Happy, even. Mycroft has a sip of his drink. 

John leans in for a kiss and Sherlock looks him over and says, “How about the wall?” before walking him backwards, mindful of the leg, and pushing him against it. Sherlock presses his weight over John, trapping him there. John’s breathing speeds up, and he swallows. A fantasy then. 

A rather obvious one, Mycroft thinks, but he is surprised Sherlock picked up on it none the less. He’s not the most observant of people when it comes to sex. Or the most experienced. 

Sherlock kisses John’s neck, his jaw, his ear, then wraps his fingers around John’s neck, uses them to roughly hold him in place and kisses him deeply. John groans, which makes Sherlock push harder, nearly climb on top of him, kissing him, then biting and sucking his jaw. John obviously likes it, but when it goes on too long he struggles a bit, indicating that he wants to be let free, and Sherlock immediately takes a step back. 

Not as far gone as he would have thought then, Mycroft thinks. He could never get Sherlock to stop. Then again he never wanted him to. 

John has various red spots around his face and neck and an obvious hard-on tenting his trousers. He takes Sherlock’s hands, pulls him close again, kisses him softly, and then turns their positions, and uses his weight to trap Sherlock. John chuckles a little, puts a hand on the wall right above Sherlock’s shoulder, leans in and says, “My turn.” 

Mycroft can see a flicker of uncertainty in Sherlock’s eyes, although it’s hidden well. He’s not sure Sherlock can deal with having control taken out of his hands like that. Mycroft never tried, always conscious of doing too much, of hurting him, of taking more than was offered. But there are days where he wishes that he had. 

John kisses Sherlock, hard, then lightly nips his teeth at Sherlock’s jaw, and sucks right at the pulse point. Sherlock leans his head back against the wall, closes his eyes, and moans. 

Mycroft feels heat pound through his body as he hears the sound. Oh. 

John opens the top button of Sherlock’s shirt, and licks his collar bone, sucks a lovely circle, and then opens another button, then another. 

Mycroft can see Sherlock has an erection by the time John is licking the pale hollow of his belly. Sherlock sighs, and doesn’t stop John as he starts on his belt. He doesn’t reach out to help either, Mycroft notes, Sherlock’s too absorbed in feeling, in just standing back against the wall and letting John do this for him. 

Mycroft is hard himself. It’s a tight, sweet pressure. 

He is aware that this is dubious, of course. Watching them. A violation of privacy at the very least, a perversion to most. But it’s safe, too. It’s something he can have and not hurt anyone and these moments are rare, now, so Mycroft takes them. 

He unbuttons the top button of his trousers, and then hooks his fingers around the second one and presses down lightly on his erection as he does so. He guides the button through the hole and the pressure decreases again. Then again. At the last one, he allows himself to linger slightly, trace his finger over the cloth covering his cock, and the button pops free. 

On the screen John undoes Sherlock’s belt as well, opens his zip, and sucks a spot right below Sherlock’s hip bone. Sherlock sways slightly, eyes still closed, and as John eases Sherlock’s trousers and underpants down his erection springs free. 

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks down, still not completely comfortable, Mycroft can tell, but more turned on than he’s seen him in years. His mouth is half-open, his lips are a dark red from biting on them. 

John looks at him. “This alright?” He always sounds as if he cares. Warm, Mycroft thinks, that’s what this John is above all. He waits for an answer. Sherlock could say no, and John would take it in stride.

But Sherlock nods, once, and then watches as John gently places a hand on the bottom of his cock, and leads it towards his mouth. When John’s lips close around the head Sherlock sighs, softly.

Mycroft’s mouth falls open, saliva pooling on his tongue. He guides his own erection through the opening in his pants, and holds it in his fist. It feels hot in his hand, dangerous. 

John is down on one knee, and it’s a wonder his leg can hold out, trembling as it is, his cane forgotten on the floor. Sherlock’s hand comes down and settles on John’s shoulder, then wanders to touch his hair. 

Sherlock’s hips are moving slightly with every suck and lick of John’s mouth, and John’s eyes are closed, blissfully happy doing this, only this. 

Mycroft runs his fingers over his erection, carefully takes a drop of pre-come from the top and leads it to his mouth. He smears it over his lips, then licks the finger clean. He thinks of his own mouth on Sherlock. What he would taste like. What he would feel like, hot and hard between his lips, desperately prodding at the back of his throat. 

John coughs once, wetly, but keeps on going, in and out, while Sherlock’s shoulders pressed against the wall are the only thing keeping him upright, his hips thrusting forward at John’s mouth, legs visibly shaking. 

Mycroft can hear his own breathing as he runs his erection through the circle of his thumb and forefinger, making it tight, again and again. He licks his lips. He can smell his own arousal, musky on the air. 

John raises his hand and presses on Sherlock’s arse, it helps to hold him up and it squeezes him in the process. Sherlock is making whiny little noises, “Oh, oh…” that make Mycroft shiver. 

Mycroft speeds up his right hand, and uses his left to put pressure on his balls, flirts with too much sensation, so much it nearly hurts. Sherlock is going to come soon. 

Sherlock’s buttocks start to spasm, his moans speed up, and John holds him firmly, doubles his efforts, mouth going up and down as fast as he can. Still he’s unprepared when Sherlock suddenly slumps back against the wall, slipping his erection out of John’s mouth, still coming, drops of it over John’s face, then his trousers. 

Mycroft comes in a sudden, helpless rush at the sight.

Sherlock slumps down against the wall, and John follows him. 

Mycroft rubs his fingers through his own come. Pulls on his wet, sticky pubes. He’s breathing fast himself. 

Sherlock pushes John around a bit, arranges him to lie on his back. Then opens his pants, and sucks him deeply. 

John comes within the minute, loudly groaning, “Oh God, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock!”

Mycroft closes the feed when they’re lying there together, looking at each other, smiling. He stands up on trembling knees and walks to the bathroom to clean up. 

He needs to work. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock’s love is a grand thing in its intensity. 

Mycroft has always borne it, even craved it, but when he goes to uni he, even though it hurts, tries to leave Sherlock behind. He tries to let Sherlock have something approaching a normal childhood, because he is aware that there should be limits and that they’re already crossing them, grown together as they are. That he’s crossed them in his mind more often than he’d like to think. 

But Sherlock doesn’t let him go. Sherlock screams and begs for months, Sherlock sends him a cake that’s dangerous, every carefully-trained sense tells him so, but still Mycroft eats the whole thing, because he can’t stop, because whatever it is, he probably deserves it. 

And when he wakes up in the hospital with Sherlock’s pale face looking at him, absolute horror written all over it, Mycroft’s heart breaks. 

Sherlock stays the entire night in that hospital, sitting on the floor, then lying on top of him in his bed, not begging to be taken with, not screaming, not telling him he hates him anymore. Instead he cries silently. Presses soft fingers on Mycroft’s cheeks to check that he is breathing, whispers “don’t ever leave me again” into his skin. 

And when they go back home and Sherlock touches him, when Sherlock pushes and Mycroft gets instantly and shamefully hard, he lets Sherlock figure it out. What it is he wants. Why he should leave him alone. 

But Sherlock doesn’t shy away. He touches and licks and grabs like he wants him, like he truly wants to have every atom there is to have, and Mycroft comes shuddering into his eager mouth.

Guilty. Forever guilty. 

 

\---

 

The Showstopper Challenge

“Welcome ladies and gentlemen, today is the second day of our pies and tarts weekend, and it’s time for the showstopper challenge. You are going to make a double-crusted pie with a filling of your choice, and you have three hours to do it in.”

Mycroft has been up since dawn, reading reports, calling several agents in different time zones. He remembers liking to sleep late, once. He hasn’t done so in years. He sits in his sofa, a pile of surveillance requisition forms on his lap, and tunes in to the challenge. 

“Ready, bakers? Get set, bake!”

Henry has a heap of limes on his counter. Molly has peaches, which she happily tells the cameras are her favourite fruit. Soo Lin has a selection of berries, everything from sharp little ones to large blueberries. Jim has an assortment of Asian fruits, dragon fruit, star fruit and a couple others. 

Angelo is making a traditional lamb Wellington, John is going savoury again as well, playing to his strengths with chicken, bacon and butternut squash pie. 

And surprisingly, so is Sherlock today. He’s making a salmon Coulibiac in a Scandinavian pastry. In order to win Sherlock has to show that he can do savoury as well, and now is the ideal time for it. Even if he does badly he’s not likely to be sent home for it this week because others will have done worse, it’s a smart move, and Mycroft is gratified to see him playing it this way. Sherlock tends to forget reason when he truly wants something, it’s part of what makes him extraordinary, but if he wants to win this competition he can’t simply be brilliant. He has to strategise. 

Their preparations are just as varied as the pies they’re making. Sherlock has to sear his salmon after rolling out his pastry, Henry is squeezing limes, Jim is showing off his superb knife work in opening his fruits, Angelo is baking his thick chunk of lamb in the pan first to ensure it gets baked through, and John is doing the same for his bacon and chicken. 

Watching something cook is probably not very demanding, because John doesn’t seem to be able to stop watching Sherlock. He turns his head Sherlock’s way every couple of minutes, wearing a soft expression, as if he can’t believe his luck. Sherlock doesn’t notice half of the time but Mycroft does, and he makes a note to have them edit it out of the footage before it airs. 

John certainly seems besotted with Sherlock. Mycroft can understand why, of course, much better than most, but still it is strange to see someone look so soft, so open and vulnerable at _Sherlock_. Mycroft knows there must be more to John, someone that collected with his background, chances are he is hiding much more than showing. But it’s still uncomfortable to watch. John has no idea what he’s getting into. 

Mycroft briefly wonders if Sherlock will ever tell him, John, what happened between them when they were younger. Whether he’ll have to look up some day to see John standing there with a gun and a calm expression, finger on the trigger. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft at eighteen is curious about sex, naturally, but he has never actually tried it. Until Sherlock. The feeling of Sherlock’s hand, hesitant on his thigh. His tongue shyly licking him. It’s an event that feels terrifying in its force and for the first time Mycroft silently understands why people even long for lust, not deem it impractical like he always has. 

Mycroft assumes that it was just an experiment for Sherlock, that first time. That it’ll be forgotten eventually. But Sherlock is persistent in his curiosity, of course he is. For weeks and months and then years on end, Sherlock sneaks into his bedroom, leaves giant hickies and smudges of chocolate, finger-shaped bruises and crumbs, and every time Mycroft aches with the guilt of it. What he continues to want. 

They still fight constantly, of course. Sherlock still feels the need to poison him, sometimes it’s in the water Sherlock washes his hands with (negligible, but interesting trace amounts none the less), the icing he spreads over his fingers and lets Mycroft suck off, sometimes nothing at all even though he pretends there is. 

And Mycroft lies down and lets Sherlock lay claim to his body in every way that he possibly wishes to, gets dizzyingly turned on by even the idea of it. Lets him, even though the resolute ecstasy of it is sometimes more than he knows how to live with. 

Sherlock is the only thing he has ever loved. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft receives a quick visit from Anthea, coming this far on a Sunday to run through some important files, as well as to deliver some messages from Mycroft’s more… specialised acquaintances. As a result, Mycroft’s distracted for a while during most of the prep work and the pies going into the oven. If Anthea wonders why his eyes occasionally wander towards an array of screens showing people competitively baking in real time, she doesn’t comment on it. Mycroft screens his people carefully; their ability to appear unfazed by nearly everything is a requirement. It doesn’t do well to show emotion in this line of work. 

Plus she’s well aware that Sherlock is baking today, she’d probably be more surprised if he wasn’t looking. 

Once she’s gone Mycroft watches the bakers stare into their ovens with various degrees of concentration, desperation and doubt. Mycroft has tried to predict the results on people’s facial expressions alone but it is wildly inaccurate, some people like Molly are always doubtful but carefully optimistic no matter what is in the oven before her, while Jim goes from confident to extremely upset in the blink of an eye. 

Angelo is the first one to open his oven and take his lamb Wellington out, but it’s a mess. Mycroft can’t tell what happened exactly but the crust has completely separated from the meat within and pooled at the bottom. Angelo has made a new, very thin, layer of dough, wraps it around the existing crust and places it in the oven again, but it seems like he already knows that it most likely is not going to work. He looks frustrated with himself, and walks over to John to vent. “It was too warm, I should have cooled it more, waited longer but there is no time so I put it in and see what happens…”

John listens to him and agrees, but there’s nothing he can do about it either. 

Henry is next to open an oven, but in his case it’s because his pie is done. He made an American Key lime pie, childhood favourite, Mycroft thinks. Henry bears all the marks of a rich upbringing hidden underneath his careless way of dressing. It looks great coming out of the oven and going into the fridge. Henry is smiling as he holds it up to check the bottom. 

Then Molly’s peaches, Soo Lin’s berry pie and Jim’s exotic fruits pie. The three of them have time left to let them cool down, decorate a bit, make a cream for on top, while the savoury pies need until the very last minute. 

Sherlock is pacing back and forth in front of his oven, dramatically sinking down to his hands and knees about once every thirty seconds to squint and scrutinise at what’s inside, occasionally ruffling his hair in aggravation. Mycroft finds it comical to watch. 

Angelo has given up and is leaning against his counter helplessly. His new layer of crust has simply fallen off and slipped over the last one, giving it even more of a sunken look. John’s pie has turned out well, although he doesn’t say a word it’s obvious in his shoulders, he’s proud of what he made. Sherlock waits until the very last minute, mumbling about moisture, but when his pie comes out steaming it looks a delicious golden brown. 

Mycroft’s stomach rumbles loudly.

He ignores it as the time counts down, and people are rushing to get the last-minute touches done. Henry is piping some cream on top of his Key lime pie, then gets some lime zest on there and literally adds the last piece of sliced lime just as the clock strikes zero. 

Time is up. 

 

\---

 

To Mycroft it feels as if Sherlock becomes a drug user overnight. 

Depending on the drug of the week Sherlock bakes day and night and bothers him at all hours, begging him to eat whatever he’s thought up. Or he lies completely blissed out on a mattress for days, soiling himself, drooling, eyes vacant. It makes him erratic. He becomes dangerously thin, his arms a mess of track marks. He gets beat up, Mycroft once has to pull his dealer from him: Sherlock, completely out of it, the man fucking him from behind, horridly pumping away. 

Mycroft yells, argues and charms, demands and cries, uses every single bit of influence he has over Sherlock, but it doesn’t change a thing. He has never in his life been so completely unable to change a situation. He has Sherlock committed, locks him up behind doors, pays for nursing staff and therapy and it doesn’t work, none of it does, Sherlock just retreats more, slips away further and further. 

Still Sherlock comes to his bed too, at times. They’re few and far between but he comes, wraps his body around Mycroft’s, kisses him, always so desperate. And Mycroft tries, tries to give him all the love he seeks, tries to touch him harder and better and longer, tells him that he’ll do anything, but then Sherlock leaves again for his next hit, shaking, sweaty, alone. 

 

\---

 

It’s obvious that the time frames are getting harder to manage every week. All the bakers look rather frayed around the edges now that the last challenge of the weekend is over.

Sherlock has his hands in front of his mouth, tapping his fingers together and looking over his pie with a critical eye. John has a couple beads of sweat on his forehead. Molly is giggling nervously, and shares a half-hug with Soo Lin. 

Angelo is up first to be judged. 

Lestrade walks up to him and starts with “Well, this is a disaster.” Angelo can only agree, sadly. 

Mrs. Hudson is kinder but when it comes down to it there is little she can say to make it better, Angelo made a crucial mistake putting his dough around the meat when it was still warm, and then several smaller mistakes trying to fix the first one. Lestrade simply slices the lamb then, but on the inside it is overcooked and bland. Angelo hangs his head. 

Next is Sherlock, who has managed to decorate around his salmon Coulibiac with little spoonfuls of caviar at the last minute. It makes it look high-class, elevates the whole idea of a pie to something more suited to a restaurant. 

“Beautiful, Sherlock!” 

The judges slice a piece, and although the crust is well done all around, some of the juice of the salmon has leaked into the bottom, making it soggy. “That’s always a danger when using fish, but the flavour is lovely though.” Mrs. Hudson says, and even Lestrade agrees on that one. The pastry itself, based on a Scandinavian specialty, is crumbly, and a touch sweet, and complements it well. 

Mycroft is very capable of influencing the judging if he would choose to, of course, but so far he has not. If Sherlock wins because he intervened it’s never going to mean as much to him. Mycroft thinks back to Sherlock’s shape, sleeping on the table in Baker’s street’s kitchen. That doesn’t mean he’s going to let him lose either, though.

Next is Molly and her peach pie, she’s serving it with a dot of cream on top and especially Mrs. Hudson seems to be a fan of the flavour. Lestrade thinks it is a bit too simple, as have been some other of Molly’s bakes, but nice. 

John’s is expertly made, again. His chicken is flavoured well, set off by the natural saltiness of the bacon and the smoothness of the butternut squash. 

It looks like the perfect comfort food, mouth-watering and filling. “You really shine with simple flavours, John.” 

Lestrade’s eyes light up, “You know, this tastes just the way my grandmother used to make. A classic, but executed perfectly. Very well done.” 

Jim’s ‘a walk through Southeast Asia’ pie is a blend of exotic fruits. It looks spectacular once cut into, it’s a mélange of colours, but then the flavour is lacking, even a little sour. 

“You should have known this, dragon fruit especially is known for tasting like water.” Mrs. Hudson says. 

Lestrade shakes his head, “I’d never had it before, but yes, I expected something better.” 

Soo Lin has added cream to her fruit pie, a lightly whipped and coloured whipped cream with flakes of dried cranberries that tastes very nice, but the structure is a bit strange on top of a pie, Mrs. Hudson says. 

Her pie itself slices nicely, but, like several others, is wet underneath because of the juice of the berries, and then, _there_ , there is something in the way she is holding her hand away from her bake… Mycroft squints at the screen. Her hands are slender, but her left wrist is swollen and has mottled bruises disappearing under her long sleeve. He should have seen it sooner. 

Not an accident, that. Recent, happened only today or last night, so it couldn’t have been the boyfriend. 

Mycroft hasn’t seen Soo Lin interact with many people, but then he hasn’t been looking at her much. She’s talented though. He catches Jim on the edge of the frame and the way he is greedily following the judging. Mycroft takes his phone. It only takes a thirty second call to put a trace on her. 

By then they’re on to Henry, who they’ve saved for the very last today, and Mycroft has an idea why. His looks stunning. 

It’s by far the best thing Henry has ever done in the competition, even crust, smooth top, perfectly spaced decorations on top. It looks the part, and when the judges have a taste and Lestrade closes his eyes to savour it, it’s obvious that he made something special. They even agree that it is one of the best, if not the best Key lime pie they’ve ever had. 

Henry nervously touches his ear and his neck as if he doesn’t know what to do with his hands after receiving that amount of praise. His eyes wander to Molly, and then quickly down again and settle on John, who is probably the safer choice. The judges leave and yes, Henry talks to John first, then Angelo, and only then, blushing, turns to Molly. 

Mycroft watches Sherlock as he goes over to John’s counter. 

John smiles at him, fond little lines around his eyes, and hands Sherlock a fork so he can taste. Sherlock takes a couple of minuscule bites while John looks on, not turned on, not waiting for a verdict of any sort, but simply glad to see Sherlock eat. Which is perfectly boring in its sentiment, were it not that a part of Mycroft is pleased to see Sherlock eat something as well. To see him happy. 

Sherlock cuts a generous slice for John as well, but he has to abandon it after a bite or two because the judges have returned. 

All the bakers gather to line up in front of the tent again, and listen to this week’s results. 

Lestrade takes a breath and says, “First of all, Henry.” 

Henry looks up, a startled look in his eyes. 

“You would have been in trouble this week, were it not for that sublime Key lime pie. Well done.” Henry nods, and looks around, vaguely embarrassed to have been singled out again. 

“And now for this week’s star baker…” It’s funny to see everyone looking at the floor, some with an expression of hope, others just looking defeated. “One of our most steady bakers, always in the middle except when he really shines like today… John!” 

John’s surprise turns into a broad smile, and suddenly it’s obvious that he really wants this. _Really_ wants this. He immediately looks towards Sherlock, who smiles at him as if he means it. 

Mrs. Hudson hugs John sweetly and calls him “John, dear.” She’s probably having wild fantasies about John as a by proxy son-in-law by now, Mycroft thinks. 

But John is liked by most, it seems, there’s smiles all around, even Lestrade claps him on the back. 

Once the commotion dies down they go on. “And now, the saddest part of our job.” Mrs. Hudson looks at them all, “I know you’ve all done your best, but we do have to choose someone to go home. And today that person is… Angelo.” 

Angelo throws himself into hugs with whoever will provide them, even grips Jim tightly, as the tears stream freely down his face and Jim grimaces. 

Angelo was never going to win as far as Mycroft is concerned, but he was quite the character and seems to have something to say to everyone, from “do your best” to “more confidence, hey, you can do this sunshine girl” to, directed at Sherlock and John, “love, keep the love my friends!” 

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s going to have to work to delete that comment. Ugh. 

 

\---

 

After Sherlock’s second overdose, Mycroft catches himself in the mirror. 

He sees his own pleasant, round face. His body, thick, sturdy, spoiled, already comfortably heading towards middle age even though he is not even thirty. And then looks at his scarecrow of a brother, barely alive, eyes dull, lips cracked, skin so white it appears almost translucent, tubes going into his veins and Sherlock says “I’ll make you truffles, Mycroft. Or a cake. Chocolate. You’ll like it so much…” before closing his eyes again and drifting, and Mycroft can’t breathe. 

He knows exactly why Sherlock is self-destructive, after all. He knows what he did. 

And his own fat bulge of a body is nothing but evidence. Of his lust, of his inability to ever say no, his inability to teach Sherlock that some things are just too much, too good. That they destroy. 

So Mycroft stops it for them. He refuses the first cake, and the second. 

No more. 

 

\---

 

John waits for Sherlock to finish packing up, and they walk outside together to the tree line. Mycroft only half-follows it because they are right, his cameras can’t see everything, this far away they’re shaded blobs half hidden behind a tree. He can hear what they say though. 

“So, I guess I’ll see you next week?” John’s angling for a little more, a meet up in London perhaps, Mycroft thinks. 

But Sherlock isn’t listening. “Love, why would he say love?” 

“Um.” John sounds amused. “I think he might have overheard us last week.” 

There’s a pause. “John…” Sherlock sounds serious. “I can’t do that.” 

Mycroft looks up. He’s never heard Sherlock attempt to deal with a concept like this. Ever.

John is silent for a moment, but then agrees, “Right, because we’ve only met a couple weeks ago and this isn’t… Isn’t it?” 

“John, I appreciate you very much, I consider you to be my... my friend.” Mycroft raises his eyebrows. High praise coming from Sherlock that, but no way John will see it for what it is. “But I am focused on my baking.” 

“Oh, of course.” John takes a breath, “I know. The competition comes first. For me, too. And you’ve become… a good friend as well. The first one in a long time, actually.” He makes it sound honest, meaningful. 

Then there’s a rustle, and Mycroft sees John reach out, then their silhouettes blend together in a kiss. It takes a while. God, Sherlock in a relationship. It’s nearly unthinkable.

John sounds breathless when he says, “So next week?” 

“Yes, next week.” Sherlock agrees, and kisses John again eagerly. 

“Biscuits,” John whispers teasingly. “Have you thought of what you’re making yet?”

“Biscuits...” Sherlock says, suddenly sounding worried and preoccupied with the no doubt rising tide of recipes in his head. 

“And traybakes.” John agrees, and starts talking about what to make as they both walk away. 

Mycroft turns the screens off, goes to sit at his desk and looks over his schedule for the next week, moves a couple meetings around. It’s all very flexible, of course, if something of significance happens he always has to be the first one to deal with it. He looks at next week’s weekend, and fills it in with “Biscuits and Traybakes”. 

If anyone important ever saw this they would think it was code for something much cleverer anyway. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft slowly stops eating altogether. He lives on a few bites of toast a day, lettuce, some juice. His stomach is always empty, rumbling and cramping, he gets constant headaches, shivers, it makes him feel as if he is drifting most of the time. 

It works very well for his career. Mycroft rises quickly in the game of politics, preferences and tantalising little secrets now that he will do anything, literally anything, without feeling regret. Despite the fact that he has to stop and catch his breath after standing up, he becomes powerful. 

Ironically. 

They both manage years like that, Sherlock and Mycroft. Brothers in self-destruction. Sherlock drifts from drug induced haze to haze, from lecture halls to police stations, drug dens and dirty back alleys. Mycroft gathers power like a shield, and whenever he thinks about it, he’s surprised that either of them are still alive. 

His body is like a sack now. At night Mycroft feels his own ribs, bangs his fists against his hip bones, pulls the empty skin of his belly. 

And still he thinks about Sherlock, feeding him. Sherlock, on top of him. Sherlock. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft’s phone goes off and he answers it, walks into the hallway, circles back towards his own door and then out in the hallway again, trying to follow both the original Japanese and the English translator’s voice underneath. It’s incredible what those people will cover up out of some misguided sense of duty, it’s always better to know exactly what’s being said. 

It takes over an hour before it’s sorted and when the phone call ends and Mycroft walks back into his suite, he immediately senses something is different. He can smell it, a hint of food. Something baked. 

His stomach clenches. Oh, no. No no no. 

He takes a breath and says, “Sherlock. What a pleasure.” 

Sherlock steps into the light, looking a little annoyed at being caught that easily. He always did enjoy his dramatics. 

Mycroft’s eyes flicker over the room. Not much disturbed, as far as he can see, it’s possible Sherlock planted a camera somewhere but why would he bother, and then his gaze lands on the desk. There are two plates on there, covered with a high-quality aluminium cover. Mycroft looks away instantly and focuses on Sherlock. “The baking’s going well, I see.” 

Traces of flour all over Sherlock, the smell of food clinging to him. There must be something from the Bake Off in those plates. But why would Sherlock bring it to him? Why at all, why now?

Sherlock is carefully observing his reaction. “Yes. Tell me, how’s the diet?” 

“Fine, thank you.” Mycroft says automatically. Ah, so Sherlock’s here to taunt him then? To tell him to leave? But no, it’s a touch tentative. 

Mycroft looks at the plates on his desk. “You baked those for John.” Technically Sherlock baked them for the competition of course, but Mycroft thinks it’s best to be clear. 

“John only wanted a piece.” Sherlock says, and stares straight at him. Dares him. 

And it’s like walking into a minefield. Mycroft doesn’t know what to say to ever make this sound _normal_ between them. “Most people can’t eat a whole pie, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock shifts. He doesn’t say, ‘I wanted him to anyway,’ but Mycroft hears it as clearly as if he did. Did he come here for advice?

Mycroft’s first, strange impulse is to defend John. To tell Sherlock not to force him to play by rules that he’s never going to guess, let alone understand, that the poor man is trying his very best. Does Sherlock want his blessing? Or will it only annoy him? Mycroft tries, “He’s a good man, John.” 

Sherlock nods. “Yes, he is.” Then he suddenly turns around, towards the door. “Don’t ever hurt him again.”

Mycroft answers, “Of…” but the door is already banging shut behind him. 

It takes a while for his heartbeat to slow down. 

 

\---

 

Then Sherlock stays clean for a couple of weeks. Months. Mycroft can barely believe it even when he sees it for himself, sees that Sherlock is getting a tiny bit more colour in his face, that he has put on some very necessary pounds, that he seems less hostile. Mycroft’s simply waiting for the second shoe to drop, of course, for Sherlock to break again, but the thought, the possibility of it, is suddenly there, warm and dense in his chest.

And against everyone’s expectation, Sherlock stays clean. 

Mycroft wants to buy him the world to keep it that way, wants to fulfil Sherlock’s every wish if it would help him to hang on, but he’s terrified of making it worse, their relationship is as frail as Sherlock’s bruised arms and his tired eyes so Mycroft stays in the shadows, pays for Sherlock’s tuition and some clothes, his rent, nothing more.

But he sees Sherlock’s eyes rest on the window of a bakery, at times. His slight pause as he walks past the flours and sugars in a shop, the twitching motion his hands make when he is thinking. Sherlock busies himself with everything science related and has discovered a new passion for solving murders, but it is not the same, it can’t be. So Mycroft takes the risk and has ten crates of baking supplies shipped to Baker Street. State of the art technology as well as antiques, rare ingredients, organic fruits. No poisons though, nothing dangerous. He’s not inviting Sherlock to bake for him again, but he _is_ inviting him. 

And Sherlock only holds out a couple hours before opening the crates, cataloguing everything inside, spreading it out over the kitchen and living room. And then... he starts to bake. 

Mycroft watches him through that entire first night, cake after cake, feeling shaky with relief. 

Sherlock’s alive. 

 

\----

 

Mycroft opens the plates on his desk, and goes to sit in front of them. One contains a slice of Sherlock’s salmon Coulibiac, caviar sprinkled on top, still somewhat warm. The other contains a slice of his mango Tarte Tatin from yesterday. 

Mycroft smells them. Would Sherlock have done anything to them? Is this revenge for harming John? Or has he just brought them the way they were made? He can’t decide what seems most likely, what Sherlock’s motives would be at all. 

In the end Mycroft carefully takes a knife and fork and tries a tiny piece of the salmon. The flavour immediately blooms in his mouth, thick and rich, and he has to swallow his saliva down as his stomach rumbles painfully. He wants to eat this. He badly, desperately does but it’s also incredibly dangerous to. He’s aware that Sherlock might want to kill him, even now. 

He’s not sure he would mind. 

He takes another, larger forkful, and tastes carefully, all his senses on high. He smells while he tastes, he uses every part of his tongue, waits until the flavour has dissipated before taking another bite. God, he has missed this. 

Mycroft’s never told Sherlock, at the time it seemed unwise to encourage him even further, but being able to identify a staggering array of poisons, metals, acids and so forth by smell and taste alone has allowed him to prevent assassinations twice so far. He even has a bit of a reputation for being unpoisonable, which of course is not true, but Mycroft likes to make them think so anyway. 

He takes another bite, and one more, and soon he is lost in the rhythm of it, open mouth, taste, chew, swallow, it’s familiar and comforting and on some level it’s all he has ever wanted to do.

He thinks of all the times they did this through phone, when he was at uni and would call to say things like, “Arsenic? Really? That’s low even for you Sherlock.” or “A little dry, don’t you think? Besides that, the icing contained a trace amount of battery acid. Try to make a tiramisu next time.” And Sherlock’s laughter, or low breathing, depending on the day, reverberating back through the phone line. 

Mycroft thinks he could call him, now, just to see if he would answer. 

His stomach starts to feel uncomfortably full. His muscles tighten, he hasn’t eaten like this in years, but he keeps on going, lost in the flavour, lost in the craft, lost in Sherlock. 

He loses track of time, enough that his driver comes up to ask him if he still wants to return to London tonight. Mycroft says yes and gets into the back seat with the other plate next to him, and pulls off little bits of tarte with his fingers while they drive, lights and empty road rolling by.

He hasn’t eaten sugar in a long time, so the caramel is nearly overwhelmingly sweet, it sticks to his tongue and teeth and even though he feels bloated now, huge and heavy, he never wants to stop. He’s still in a daze when he reaches his home, realises he hasn’t worked or even thought about work for hours, just eaten. 

Just this.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Biscuits and Traybakes (Sherlock)

 

 

The Signature Bake

Sherlock arrives nearly late today. He overslept, or, more accurately, fell asleep for two and a half whole hours while he should have been working through the night, then woke up, packed franticly, and navigated hellish London morning traffic. 

When he walks in, the production assistant looks relieved, and John immediately looks up. “Sherlock! There you are!” 

Sherlock nods, “John.” With Angelo gone the counters have gone from eight to six, and the tent seems clearer now, more open. There’s a light rain outside, but it’s not cold. Jim and Soo Lin are still on the front row, and both have already finished setting up and are waiting to begin. Molly’s workspace is on the second row together with Henry, and the third one has Sherlock’s empty space next to John. 

Sherlock sets his supplies down and starts unpacking. Fresh apricots and pistachios for today. Ginger, treacle, cloves and nutmeg for tomorrow. 

John has been a constant in these last few weeks. Sherlock is careful to keep it, the idea of him, contained but he can’t help but think of him while he’s baking. He thinks of what John would make, and how. He thinks of John’s hands, kneading, shaping. He thinks of them spread out on his body. John’s smile, the ease of being around him, it’s like a sweet refrain in his head. Sherlock glances at him. It going to be good to have him so close.

Sherlock reaches for his apron just as Lestrade starts the opening speech. “Hello bakers, and welcome to week four! For this signature challenge you are asked to bake your favourite traybake. You have two hours to do it in. Remember, everything has to be made from scratch, and you have to serve it cut into identical pieces. Good luck!” 

Sherlock is making an apricot and pistachio tiffin, which he will serve chilled. He’s aware that it’s pushing the whole idea of a traybake a little but he gets praised fairly consistently for originally, so it seems important to keep innovating. He hasn’t won star baker yet, and both John and Jim have. He can win it at least once, Sherlock is certain of it. He just needs to work at it. 

“Ready, get set, bake!”

 

\---

 

Sherlock doesn’t think of it often, but it was Mycroft who played the violin first. 

One of Sherlock’s earliest memories is of hearing him play, and watching his fingers dance over the strings. Mycroft used to play him lullabies, simple children’s songs before bed. Sherlock remembers firelight flickering over his serious, concentrating face, Mycroft’s weight pressing a dip in his mattress, a shared smile, and the music floating between them until his eyes grew heavy, his breathing slow, and he fell asleep dreaming of notes and melodies. 

Mycroft was never a very talented musician. He gave it up after a few years, never one to put in a wasted effort, his brother, but Sherlock didn’t know that back then. 

He made it feel like magic. 

 

\---

 

Molly is wearing a mint green cardigan today. She has a pile of dark chocolate on her counter, so Sherlock is fairly sure as to what she’s making. “Brownies? Childhood memories, most likely good ones?” 

She turns around. Three weeks of working in front of him must have gotten her used to his long silences interspersed with the occasional comment, because she doesn’t seem surprised, only glad that he’s talking to her. “Yes! With cherries. It’s just such an ideal comfort food, isn’t it, I make it all the time for my, eh, friends.” 

“Co-workers.” Sherlock says while he turns the oven on. “You work in a morgue together, they’re not your friends.” 

Molly’s face falls. “Yes, I suppose.” 

She turns around again, and starts crumbling her chocolate over a Bain-marie. 

Sherlock hesitates. He didn’t want to upset her. She’s been quiet and reasonably easy to work close to. “St. Bart’s has a great morgue, one of the best in the area, I enjoy it greatly myself.” 

Molly glances at him, “We… yes, it’s a good place.” She gives him a small smile. Sherlock assumes he’s forgiven and starts on the mixture for his biscuit base. 

John is making a Bakewell Florentine slice. Italian, so it seems like it would be a little out of his comfort zone, but he seems particularly in his element today, smiling as he chops his almonds. Sherlock has an idea why, of course. John is doing well in the competition, star baker last week, plus he might be thinking of what will happen between them later tonight. 

Sherlock has been thinking about it, too. 

But every time he does he remembers John’s hopeful voice, saying “...it is, isn’t it?” and Sherlock doesn’t know how to respond in a way that John will understand. 

Henry looks up from the blueberries he’s cutting into pieces, his hands coloured a deep purple, and throws a longing look at Molly. Sherlock follows it closely as he kneads his dough. That’s exactly what he’ll never be able to fake, for John. Concern and blushes, stammering declarations of intent, holding hands with sweaty palms. Disgusting. Molly pretends she hasn’t noticed, but Sherlock sees a little ripple of, what, tension? Happiness? in the muscles of her back as she keeps on stirring. Does she want Henry? She’s probably pleased and confused by any sort of attention, Sherlock thinks. He looks at her back again. He can relate. 

Jim has started boiling condensed milk and it makes the whole tent smell sour. He’s also humming something, low under his breath. Really it’s only audible in the absence of Angelo; he might have been humming in previous weeks but Sherlock isn’t sure. He strains to hear. He knows it’s something classical, something he has heard before, but the fact that he can’t name it must mean that it’s something rare. 

All of it throws him off enough to start on his apricots a little late, and Sherlock focuses on getting them done perfectly within the time he has set out for it. He has done this particular recipe four times, but other variations of it all week. Rose from down the street (she’s fifty, blind, begs around the Baker Street tube entrance) had finally convinced him to go with apricots because she thought the taste was a little more tangy and fresh than the type of peaches he had been planning on. 

Mrs. Hudson refuses to talk about or taste anything he bakes now, of course, except to comment on the smell, and at times, the mess he makes. She comes by to clean often though and throws little glances at Sherlock’s preparations, recipes, and what’s in the oven, as if she can’t help herself. She would love to see him win, Sherlock thinks, but she’s never going to give it to him if he doesn’t deserve it. She has a strong moral core underneath that sweet exterior and there’s nothing he could do to change that. Not even Mycroft could bribe her on this, Sherlock is certain of it. And then he wonders whether Mycroft has tried. Whether he cares enough to have tried. 

Sherlock puts his biscuit base in the oven, he doesn’t have to bother to shape it since it will be crumbled up and then soaked in the juice of the apricots anyway, sets the timer for fifteen minutes, and then gets to grinding the pistachios. They each have an electric blender provided by the Bake Off but Sherlock prefers to grind by hand, in an old, metal model that he found in the back of an antique shop once. It’s easily over a hundred years old, and barely makes a sound. He has oiled it well, and it gives him much more control over the actual consistency of the nuts. 

Jim is using crumbled biscuits as a base as well, and his are done slightly faster, as always. That man moves like lightning. 

Molly’s chocolate is melted completely by now, and she sticks in a spoon to taste. 

Soo Lin as always is working quietly, bent over her work. She’s making a crumble, Sherlock thinks. He’s still annoyed about that herb she refused to reveal. He’s been to two Chinese specialty stores and a black market sale from the back of a truck John told him about looking for it and he hasn’t found what it was. She hasn’t used it since. Because she fears he’ll be able to tell? Is it something illegal? Medicinal? What?

When his biscuit base is done Sherlock lets it cool a bit, crumbles it up and starts layering, making sure the layers are perfectly even all around. That’s why he has chosen not to use a modern glass tray like most but an old-fashioned steel springform pan with perfectly straight corners, it allows for both neater and larger pieces in the end. 

Sherlock glances at John. He seems to be well on schedule. He briefly considers slipping something into John’s food, nothing dangerous, just to make him a little slow, a little less collected perhaps. To make him giggle, or blush. It would be interesting. But no, that would just make someone else win. Sherlock needs to be better than John, better than Jim. He wants to win this because he’s the best. 

But maybe he can drug John later though. In bed. 

Jim’s slicing bananas, and catches him looking. He smiles a toothy grin. Sherlock looks away. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock spends hours trying to play Mycroft’s violin. Mycroft always pretends that he isn’t listening, of course, but Sherlock can tell he hears the mistakes by the little flinches he makes. Sometimes he gets up to correct Sherlock’s hands, or his stance. Sherlock soon surpasses him in talent, and then it is Mycroft who puts his books aside and closes his eyes sometimes, a small smile playing around his lips as Sherlock takes him further and further into the music. 

It does something to Mycroft, more than Sherlock ever intends to. Music makes him quiet and intense, it makes him feel. 

Sometimes Sherlock goes to lie next to Mycroft and strokes his cheek after the melody has stopped, watches his eyes from up close to find what’s in them. Takes his look and steals it away to examine in his head later. 

His brother is the biggest mystery he has ever encountered, and he loves him for it. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock’s tiffin goes in the fridge, and with thirty minutes left on the clock he’s done. All that he has to do is wait for it to cool down, and at the last minute slice it. Perhaps decorate it a little, although it is a traybake so he is conscious about not making it seem too fancy, what they want here is dependable, easy. John’s style of baking, actually.

Sherlock looks at John’s counter. He is aware of how John got his baking skills, he’s read his blog in its entirety several times now. John seems reluctant to mention anything too deep or potentially disturbing about his past though, which is annoying because Sherlock wants to know it all. He has barely seen the scar yet. 

Sherlock shifts so that he is fully looking at John, and sees him falter slightly. So. Not always as concentrated on his baking as he seems, then. 

John’s batter for the Florentine contains neither flour nor eggs, but it seems to have come out perfectly coloured anyway. It’s pleasant not to have to worry about time pressure for a moment. Sherlock knows that Mycroft always liked to watch him bake, and he can see the appeal now, John’s hands carefully spreading almonds over a layer of melted chocolate. Sherlock imagines John in the kitchen in Baker Street like this, baking next to him. John would be smiling then, he’d be playful, happy. Sated from sex perhaps, or full with the knowledge that he’s soon to get more. It’s a nice image. 

Sherlock knows that it most likely will never happen, not if John realises everything that is never going to work between them outside of this fishbowl of a tent. Everything Sherlock can’t. Because some bakes are not filled with John, but heavy with long-remembered fragments of touch. 

He hears Mycroft’s voice again, saying, “He’s a good man, John…” and like most things with Mycroft, Sherlock isn’t sure whether it was meant as a warning or a recommendation. He thinks it might have been both. ‘Don’t hurt him,’ or, ‘you’re going to hurt him.’ ‘He can’t handle you,’ or, ‘you can’t handle him.’ Maybe all of the above. 

Molly’s brownies come out of the oven smelling like deep and dark chocolate, then Soo Lin’s crumble. Hers smells as if there are berries in there again. She used them last week as well. Sherlock looks at her, but it’s hard to read her, as the only one she ever talks to is Molly, and then it is mostly about baking, Molly’s cat (Soo Lin has thought of getting one), their shared love of the National Geographic channel, and Soo Lin’s boyfriend. Sherlock has tried listening in but no longer bothers. 

Time is getting closer, so he takes his tiffin out of the fridge, opens the little lever that splits the baking tray into two halves; hardly any of it has stuck to the sides, good. Not too much moisture as well, which is what he had a problem with twice last week and he’s been determined to avoid. He takes out a ruler and slices it into eight exact square pieces. 

“Three, two, one, that’s it bakers, time!”

Sherlock puts his ruler down. It’s a rather simple bake for his doing, he could have handled more steps, have added more flavours, but then that was the point. Restraint. And it looks well, he thinks. 

Soo Lin is up first, and yes, it’s a mixed berry crumble she was making, golden brown on top but darkly coloured on the inside. It tastes interesting, according to Mrs. Hudson, almost like a currant of some sort, and Lestrade comments on the structure of the crust and the crumble. Neither of them seems to have noticed the repeated use of similar ingredients, but then there are no rules against that. 

Jim’s Banoffee pie squares look bombastic, heavily decorated with fresh bananas, whipped cream and a drizzle of dark chocolate on top, Sherlock thinks it’s a tad childish to decorate that much but again the judges don’t say anything about it, just comment on the sweetness of it all and the rich taste. Although Lestrade does call it “heavy”. 

Molly’s brownies are presented in a little basket with a bow around it, and some fresh cherries set around for decoration. It makes Mrs. Hudson smile. They taste and find them “scrumptious”. Lestrade says they could have used more cherries inside, but it’s a minor comment. 

Henry’s breakfast traybake looks similar to Soo Lin’s except that it has oats that provide crumble, and only ordinary blueberries. Sherlock thinks they’re underwhelmed by him, again. Although his Key lime pie last week was such a technical feat that he should be capable of better. 

They’re up to John now, and although his almond and hazel Florentine is visually very nice, especially the top layer of almonds makes it look frivolous, the bake itself is very dry with nothing in there to add moisture. Lestrade says it might work better as a biscuit to go with a cup of tea than a traybake. John simply accepts the criticism, probably thinking something stoic as ‘it can’t always be perfect,’ Sherlock thinks, but he makes sure to meet his eye and show concern, as a friend should. He probably doesn’t do it quite right though because John looks a little confused. 

Sherlock wants to try again, but then they’re at his counter. “You alright, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asks. 

“Yes, fine.” Sherlock says, and pushes his crystal plate with tiffin slices forward. Lestrade immediately takes one in his hand and turns it over, but Sherlock knows he won’t find any excess moisture there today. Lestrade doesn’t acknowledge it, simply hums.

“Well defined layers,” Mrs. Hudson says, and tries a taste. The biscuit has gone soft absorbing all added moisture, the pieces of pistachio add crumble, and the apricots are slightly tangy, a little hard still. Sherlock leans forward. 

“Good, I like the combined texture of the apricots and pistachios.” Lestrade says. Sherlock waits for more comments but he doesn’t say. 

Mrs. Hudson adds, “The flavour is delicious, it’s like a little taste of summer. Nice that it’s cold too, it makes it stand out from the others, well done.” 

They leave, and Sherlock takes a piece, not too large, enough to get the taste, and wraps it. He doesn’t think about it, just places it into the cool box he brought, and hands it off to one of the production assistants who’s been bribed by Mycroft. “He’s going to want this.” She looks confused for about thirty seconds, and then taps her earpiece as she gets an order, looks at Sherlock again with a bit of a surprised look and quickly walks out of the tent. 

Sherlock walks back to his counter, gets another, bigger slice, and puts it on a plate. 

John looks at him. Sherlock grins. 

They take it outside together, to the trees, and Sherlock gets to taste the tang of apricot on John’s lips. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock likes to steal treasures. Little trinkets that he keeps in a small wooden chest, like the last of Mycroft’s baby teeth intermixed with his own, or the eyes of Mycroft’s favourite stuffed toy. One night Sherlock sneaks into Mycroft’s room and cuts off a strand of his hair. Mycroft, unreasonably vain even then, wakes up with a notable bald spot. He’s angry and refuses to speak to him for days, so Sherlock uses the scissors on himself, fills a plastic bag with all of his curls and puts it on Mycroft’s lap as an apology.

Mummy is not amused. Dad says he looks like a hedgehog. Mycroft rolls his eyes and pulls him close, and Sherlock smiles, because he knows he’s forgiven. 

Years later Sherlock steals Mycroft’s underwear, his favourite books, his duvet cover, all because they smell like him. The single wrinkled collection of erotica he has hidden under his bed, because Sherlock wants to own his fantasies too. And his pocket watch, because Mycroft loves that thing. 

Then his reality, his kisses, the taste of his skin, the feel of his body. His brother is a heap of sensual buttons to press, his every desire there to be predicted, drawn out and sated. Sherlock rubs off on Mycroft’s leg, listening to his moans and sighs and soft noises of want. Watches Mycroft’s mouth open and hands clench and sweat dot his brow, Mycroft’s eyes glittering with the need to come. Sherlock never gets enough of it. 

He knows Mycroft is ashamed of wanting him. But it takes a long time before he wonders why.

 

\---

 

The Technical Challenge

John conspicuously wipes his red-kissed mouth, Sherlock adjusts his suit jacket and they all file back into the tent. They did eat some real food in between kissing at John’s insistence, but that had been only half of the hour, most of it was spent outside hiding from the drizzling rain under a large weeping willow. John also insisted on not taking it further than kissing. 

Sherlock doesn’t see the point of waiting until the evening, but he didn’t want to contradict John too much while he was eating, mouth opening for Sherlock’s tongue and his tiffin in turn, Sherlock’s erection slowly dragging over John’s leg. It was marvellous. 

And now he has to focus on beating him again. Molly arrives as well, her hair wetter than it should have been just walking back to the tent, and there is some wet grass stuck to her shoe. Did she go for a little stroll as well? With whom? Sherlock looks at Henry, but his hair is dry. So is Soo Lin’s.

Lestrade says, “For this technical challenge, you will be making one of Mrs. Hudson’s recipes again.”

Mrs. Hudson looks a tad proud of herself, and continues, “I am asking you to make eighteen tuiles, that’s a thin, crisp wafer, following my recipe. You have one and a half hours to do it in. Half of the tuiles need to be shaped in the traditional manner and piped in concentric circles while the other half needs to be rolled up and dipped in chocolate. Good luck to you all!” 

Tuile. Named after the French word for tile, because of the shape of the biscuit. Can be flat, or curled over a mould or a rolling pin. Sherlock has several of both with him, but since they didn’t provide one for them to use today they might be looking for improvisation in the technique, so that means finger rolling. Sherlock has done it before, but only once. And not this week either, in the months between being selected for the show and the beginning of the Bake Off, where he simply made the contents of entire baking books in alphabetical order. The trick is in getting the biscuit as thin as possible, and he remembers some of them cracking. 

Sherlock looks around and tries to gauge how the others are feeling about this. John is looking at the very sparse recipe with some confusion. Does he not know what they are? Henry is back to sighing again, Molly is reading and re-reading the instructions, but Soo Lin has had the same thought Sherlock had and is also looking for a mould. 

Jim has already taken some butter out of the fridge, and Sherlock quickly does the same. Then he puts granulated sugar and egg whites in a bowl and starts whisking, but not vigorously. For once the goal is not to add air to the mixture, in fact the egg whites should not be foamy and he thinks there might be a few who don’t realise this. Jim seems to know, and carefully scoops in his butter. Soo Lin as well, but Molly, Henry and John are whisking away. 

Sherlock looks at John, and fights the impulse to tell him off. It will add unattractive air bubbles to the batter, John should know better than this, if only he’d think! But he’s not looking up. 

Sherlock adds in flour and vanilla extract, and then the batter is done. The recipe says, ‘Refrigerate for at least four hours.’ Given the time constraint that’s going to be impossible, so the question is, refrigerate or freeze? The problem will be with shaping, if the batter is too warm it will run too much, and too cold means it won’t spread. Sherlock compromises by putting his bowl in the freezer for twenty minutes and refrigerate for twenty, and he can see most of the others figure out something similar. 

It wasn’t much of preparation work, ten minutes at most for all of them, which means that now they’re standing around with nothing to do but preheat an oven while the batter cools. 

Soo Lin and Molly go sit against the side of the tent with a cup of tea, and Henry comes over to John’s station to have a chat.

Which leaves Jim, looking directly at Sherlock. Sherlock has no desire to speak to him, so he goes over his supplies, carefully cleans some of his moulds in case he does wish to use them later, but Jim doesn’t take the hint and appears at his counter. 

“Sherlock… always prepared, aren’t you? Such a little boy scout.” 

Sherlock says nothing. 

Jim leans over his counter so a flash of his hot pink designer underwear shows. “Hellooo.” 

Sherlock quickly searches the tent for John, who has noticed what’s going on, but only seems to be amused by it and not at all inclined to come over. Great. 

Jim sees, of course, and says, “Are you worried about your little boyfriend? _John?_ Oh, Sherlock, you can do so much better.” 

“Not interested.” Sherlock makes sure he sounds bored, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. He is interested, of course, although not in the way that Jim seems to think. Jim’s fast and talented, Sherlock wants to know how he works, and whether he’s hiding something besides a temper. He’s certain he is. 

“But he’s so boooring…” Jim’s voice has a sing-song cadence that’s hard to take seriously. “We geniuses have to stick together, don’t you think?” It makes him sound like much more of a joker than he really is, Sherlock thinks. In fact, looking into his eyes Sherlock’s suddenly certain that this wouldn’t be about some simple flirtation at all. Jim looks at him with fire in his gaze. Something poisonous. It’s as if he is promising to hurt him. Badly. 

Sherlock is fascinated despite himself. He could get this man into bed in an instant, obviously, but he wouldn’t own him. He thinks it might be the other way around. “No, thank you.” 

Jim sighs. “Too bad. We could make each other very happy, I think. If you change your mind...” He is holding a piece of paper in his palm, and slides it under Sherlock’s baking paper, angling his body so that Sherlock sees, but no one else in the tent can. It’s a good sleight of hand. That, plus his skill with knives. Pickpocket? He doesn’t have the calluses, but it might be a long-ago habit. “Call me.” 

John chooses this moment to appear. Jim says, “Ah, the boyfriend to the rescue, of course.” And then, “Time to go!” 

John still seems mostly amused, but a little annoyed too, Sherlock sees. So he doesn’t appreciate Jim either. “Was he _flirting_ with you?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock says. Then belatedly wonders whether he should have lied. Is John jealous? Sherlock looks him over. Does he want him to be? 

But John looks away at Henry, who hesitantly walks towards Molly and starts talking to her, and says, “He fancies her. Molly.”

“Did he tell you that?” Sherlock asks, curious about what they talk about when he isn’t listening. Would Henry ask John for advice? 

John shakes his head, “No, but it’s rather obvious, isn’t it?” Molly makes a soft joke and they can hear Henry’s laughter through the entire tent, his face flushed under her attention. 

They’re silent. “John, I have no sexual interest in Jim.” Sherlock says it quickly, just to be certain. 

John is still looking at Henry and Molly, but he smiles, and then looks at him. “Yes, I figured. Too thin, too controlling. Bet he doesn’t like to eat much, right?” 

Sherlock feels a coil of discomfort in his belly. He’s not sure he wants to talk about this so carelessly. “You do.” It’s more of a question. Does John enjoy it, truly? Is he only doing this because he’s been asking him to? Does he understand? 

“I like what it does to you.” John says simply. Oh. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock grows up desiring Mycroft’s words, his eyes, his reactions, so essentially that it’s synonymous with living. Sherlock’s not sure that he is anything when Mycroft is not there to understand him. 

Later he learns that he can live without him just fine, of course. Sherlock grows tired of Mycroft’s bargaining, his tightly controlled life. He enjoys turning up high simply because it disrupts Mycroft’s carefully constructed reality. Power is a heady thing, and Sherlock has it. Even on his worst days, the ones where the world is like metal ants crawling under his skull, where he has to do something -anything- but no matter what there is no solution, he will still have this over Mycroft. Because Mycroft _cares_. 

Sherlock will still be able to destroy him with a single word. 

Sherlock fantasises about hundreds of ways to kill Mycroft, then whispers them into his ear as he jerks him off, as he pinches Mycroft’s nipples, fondles his balls between his fingers, traps his stilted breaths in the palm of his hand. And Mycroft sweats and breathes and shivers. His heart pounds and his muscles spasm and sometimes he screams until he’s hoarse under Sherlock’s fingers, his body made a thing extraordinary 

It’s beautiful. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock goes to check on his batter in the fridge and then his oven. It’s only later when he moves his baking paper that he remembers Jim’s little note and he looks for it. It’s small and white, with neat handwriting. It really is Jim’s phone number. Sherlock throws it away. 

The batter has to be spread as thin as possible onto the baking paper, and then baked for only a couple minutes on high heat. Because of the high sugar content these tuiles are incredibly easy to burn, and the difference between a solid enough biscuit to hold together and a burned one is a matter of less than a minute. Sherlock would like to have the luxury of time to figure out the perfect baking time, adjust the temperature and moisture, make them one by one until it is right but he can’t. He has to put nine in in one go, and hope for the best. 

The complete roll will be the most difficult to achieve, especially because the biscuit has to be warm to be flexible and dries out near immediately, so most people are opting to make the traditionally shaped ones first, and then focus their remaining time on rolling. Jim is the only one to do it the other way around, rolling quickly, the biscuits shaping neatly beneath his fingers. Sherlock has to tear his eyes away. 

He sits down on the floor to look into the oven, and counts down until the exact right moment to take them out. John is bending over his oven as well, and Sherlock catches his eye. It feels a little secretive, both of them half-hidden from view like this. John seems to be thinking something similar because he smiles a heated little smile. Sherlock is distracted from his oven for almost twenty seconds by it. 

Then John goes back to his bake and not for the first time Sherlock wonders whether this is a tactic of John’s. Maybe of Jim’s as well. Are they trying to break his focus by offering sex? It’s probably succeeding, at least somewhat, and Sherlock hates the fact that it is. He should be focusing more than he is. He needs to win star baker at least once. He needs to. So he doesn’t look back at John, just stares into his oven, then opens it and takes them out. John is only a couple seconds behind, he can’t help but hear. 

Sherlock shapes his first batch over a rolling pin, and he has to be very quick about it, it takes less than a minute for the biscuit to dry out and by the last one he really has to press on it for it to take its shape. He’s not certain he’s going to be able to roll them that quickly when it comes down to it. He gets the next batch in the oven, melts some chocolate and carefully circles it over the biscuits, and by then it’s nearly time to get the next ones out already. 

He looks around the room. Baking them doesn’t seem to be posing a problem for anyone, the batter of the people who beat their egg whites too much does have more air holes in it, Sherlock can clearly see the difference between his own and Molly’s in texture, but it seems to be less of an issue that he would have thought, hers still look nice enough. It’s the shaping that’s the problem. Henry has cracked one of the last ones in his first batch trying to bend it so now he is baking a couple extra. Soo Lin has put some back into the oven trying to heat them again but it didn’t work, they’re only burned at the edges as a result. 

Sherlock looks in the oven again, and does what he normally never would: he takes the baking tray out thirty seconds too early, quickly pushes three tuiles onto his baking sheet on the counter, and pops it back in. He takes the first one between his fingers; it’s hot straight from the oven, and no, not formed enough. He lets it cool for a moment, goes back to looking at the ones that are still baking, mentally gives them about twenty seconds more, tries again, and he carefully manages to roll one tuile by the time all of them have to come out. It feels unstructured to work this way, but there’s no choice. 

He leaves them on the oven tray, rolls number two, three. Then burns his fingers while scraping the fourth off the still-hot tray. He tries to roll it, it’s still too soft to keep its shape, so he waits a couple seconds, tries again, four, five, six, seven is already cooling down and resists being bent, Sherlock has to carefully apply pressure, conscious that the longer he spends on this one the less chance he has on getting the last ones right. He does finish number seven perfectly, but eight won’t bend. 

He tries to mist some water on the last two, puts them back in the oven for a minute, then pulls them out before any burning is visible, but even then they are still too stiff to roll. He missed his chance. Now he can only choose between breaking them and leaving them half-curled, so he does the latter, dips them all half-way into the waiting chocolate, there’s no time to let them stiffen up, and gets them on the plate just as the end of the challenge gets called. 

It’s a mess. 

Sherlock’s fingers are stinging and he puts them under running water. It’s incredibly annoying that he didn’t do this better. He should have been able to. He should have…

Looking around the room he sees that the results vary wildly, as always. 

John’s have air holes in them from the beating, and they are all evenly coloured which means he must have taken them all out at the same time, but he has one traditional one that’s uncurled and three rolled ones that are left undone. Henry has more than he should have, but they’re a selection of over and underbaked, all sloppily rolled. Soo Lin’s are rolled tightly or not rolled at all, Molly’s all seem underbaked compared to the rest, perhaps she hoped that it would be easier to manipulate and it might have been, she has nearly all of hers done. The only one who has finished the complete batch is Jim. He’s smiling smugly as he brings his plate up to the judge’s table. 

The judges take their time to look at them all closely, confer, and then announce the results from worst to best. In sixth place is Henry, who by now is used to doing badly at technical challenges and doesn’t seem surprised. Fifth is John, which after last week is a little unexpected but he shrugs. It was hard. Fourth is Soo Lin, Sherlock is third again. Molly is second, and Jim is the clear winner. 

Only Molly congratulates him. 

 

\---

 

When Mycroft starts losing so much weight that it becomes dangerous, Sherlock is past noticing. 

Sherlock wakes up in his own vomit, his own piss, in black government cars and pale yellow hospital rooms, but he’s never really awake. A good drug addiction is a perfect roller coaster, the high, the come down, the search for another high and then the next hit, all strung like pearls in a white powder necklace of misery. The intensity is so deep, the yearning so strong, that everything else in the world seems inconsequential, and so does Mycroft’s quiet self-flagellation. 

Drugs are much better lovers than Mycroft ever was. They give Sherlock exactly what he wants them to, whether it’s oblivion, restless energy or inspiration. They never fail to provide for him, make his mind feel like lightning, he knows everything and sees everything, they make him _god_. And they are ever so freely available. 

Sherlock is of course aware that eventually they will kill him, too, but that makes it even more appealing. The calculated risk he takes every time he puts a needle to his vein is yet another reward. Every time could be his last. Sometimes he wants it to be. 

Mycroft tells him, voice soft and sombre, “You’ll die Sherlock, if you keep this up. You’ll die, and your loss will break me.” 

And Sherlock doesn’t remember where he was, or when, or even Mycroft’s face, just his words, before strong arms lift him up and carry him and all he remembers thinking is yes, yes, carry me, take all of me, take me away. 

But he doesn’t die.

 

\---

 

The short amount of time spent on the challenges today means that filming ends earlier than it ever has before, it’s only afternoon by the time they’re done. Soo Lin and Molly walk back to the castle together, Henry a couple paces behind. Jim immediately walks outside and gets on his phone, arms waving as he speaks into it, obviously annoyed with something. Mrs. Hudson takes Lestrade’s arm walking back. The camera people are closing up, putting the equipment away, talking about going into town tonight. 

John curls his fingers in Sherlock’s sleeve, and drags him along. It has stopped raining. John is walking quickly, his cane sinks slightly into the wet grass with every step but he doesn’t seem to notice, and Sherlock has to take long strides to keep up. 

“Where are we going?” Sherlock asks, although he feels he can probably guess what John has in mind. 

John grins, “My room.” and speeds up again. 

Sherlock knows John tends to respond to his voice, so he says, “Oh and why would that be?”

It works. John seems flustered, “Sherlock, damn it, what do you think, lunch, I barely made it though that, I’ve been fa... thinking about this all week.” 

Sherlock likes him like this, aroused, a little embarrassed. “And what did you fantasise about?” John will tell him the truth, he knows, even if it’s simply because he can’t think of a convincing lie that quickly. 

“Getting you naked. Spreading you out on my bed.” John seems sure of himself, but his eyes are searching, he’s looking for Sherlock’s reaction. “Fucking you.”

Sherlock feels the corners of his mouth curl up into a smile. “And you would like that, would you?” but his heartbeat feels oddly slow, hard in his chest. 

“Oh, yes.” John smiles, and starts walking even faster. 

John’s room is on the ground floor as a nod to his injury but it was obviously never meant to be a bedroom, a sitting room perhaps. It’s large, much larger than Sherlock’s own room here, with a high white ceiling, bright windows and a gleaming marble floor. It also only contains a double bed, a wardrobe and a single chair that seems a little forlorn among that much space. 

John locks the door behind them. His footsteps and the dull thud of his cane echo as he walks to the bed. John doesn’t seem to be bothered by the grand space, by the afternoon light hitting the crisp white sheets, but Sherlock stops by the door. 

John matter-of-factly pulls his oatmeal coloured sweater over his head, puts it on the chair, and then starts on the buttons of his grey shirt. 

Sherlock’s thoughts flick back to Jim’s eyes. Wanting to take him apart. Then John’s kind ones, wanting to fuck him. He wishes he would have had a drink, after the challenge. His mouth is dry. 

John is out of his shirt now, only a thin undershirt left that he pulls off and yes, there’s his scar. John sits down on the bed and removes his shoes, and then his socks. He doesn’t look as if he is feeling particularly sexy, he is just taking them off to be practical, and it’s easy to imagine him doing so before bed every night, the same unconscious routine. 

John looks up, a smile on his face that fades as he sees Sherlock’s expression. “Hey, are you okay?” 

“Of course.” Sherlock says quickly, and walks towards the bed, unbuttons his suit jacket, neatly hangs it over John’s sweater and uses his hands to press out the creases, then starts on his shirt buttons. Of course he’s fine. He’s fond of John, even. 

John sounds concerned, “If it’s that you don’t actually want to do, um, what I said before, that’s fine, we can do whatever you want, it really doesn’t need to be... that.” 

Sherlock takes off his shoes and socks, unbuckles his belt, and steps out of his trousers and underwear in one go. He is completely naked, and he’s aware that this is the first time that John has seen him this clear, this well-lit. Sherlock prepared for this yesterday, looked at his arms, legs and thighs in the mirror from all possible angles. If there are scars from the track marks still left there, they are absolutely minimal. The kind he could find with a magnifying glass, but not something John will notice at first glance. 

“Sherlock?” John is looking up at him from the bed, momentarily mollified by seeing this much skin on display, but still concerned. 

Sherlock tries to order the thoughts in his head. Mycroft always had rules, lines not to cross, he never touched him where he didn’t want to be touched and Sherlock yearned for it sometimes, in those days, but it took drugs for him to press his fingers inside himself, to ask Mycroft to fuck him raw. And when Mycroft refused, he found other men to do it. That was simple. John was simple, until now. 

Sherlock’s never actually done this sober.

He takes the step towards the bed, and presses with his hand on John’s naked chest until John falls down onto the sheets. Sherlock crawls over him, and kisses him. He likes John’s tongue, the way it goes from gently teasing to reckless want and back again. He likes John’s cheeks, the vague rasp of stubble. He likes John’s neck, the trace of cologne, applied very early this morning, cheap, but still there. 

Sherlock pushes John towards the top of the bed, unbuckles John’s trousers with his hands and sticks his nose in John’s armpit, smells his strong sweat. John’s stomach muscles move under his arms to signal his laughter, “What are you doing?” 

“Smelling.” Sherlock says, “Smell is a strong indicator of human arousal.” He smells the other armpit, then licks John’s ribs, probes his tongue in his belly button. John’s still laughing, he’s a little ticklish, so Sherlock moves down, pulls down John’s pants and buries his nose in John’s pubic hair. He’s trimmed it since last time, not a lot but noticeably so. Shame. 

Sherlock wants to put his head down on John’s thigh, put his nose and mouth over his pubes and stay there forever. 

He would do that to Mycroft, stay there while Mycroft’s fingers softly ran through his hair. Sherlock always liked to watch closely, to see him slowly fill out and rise. Then simply lean over, and mouth the base of it, lazily suck him into his mouth. Sherlock suddenly, in a flash of sensory memory, remembers the feeling of Mycroft’s erection swelling on his tongue. The warm weight of it. The taste. He breathes in shakily. 

“Seriously, Sherlock, are you okay?” John leans up on his elbows and he’s frowning now, eyes serious. 

Sherlock knows that he’ll have to say something real or John _will_ stop him. He swallows. “You were right, I do not want to be penetrated today.” It sounds formal to his own ears, stiff. 

John however, immediately relaxes, “Oh, of course, that’s fine.” He even smiles to back it up. He says, a little conspiratorially, “I was trying to be sexy, saying that.” 

“You don’t have to try,” Sherlock says, immediately and honestly. 

John reaches out, pulls him up and kisses him. “Yeah, I see that.” Then takes the corner of the covers, rolls to the side so he can lift them up, kicks off his trousers completely and then covers them both in the thick cotton sheets. They smell like industrial fabric softener. Sherlock feels instantly more comfortable, which is absolutely ridiculous as he has never been shy about his body. John kisses him again, but softly. He feels relaxed next to Sherlock, warm. 

Sherlock puts his face on John’s bony shoulder, listens for his heartbeat. Then drifts for a minute in the cocoon of sheets and John’s body heat, counts his breaths. 

 

When Sherlock next opens his eyes John’s shoulder is shifting under him. 

“Sorry.” John whispers, but his stretch is one of someone who had been waiting for a while to move. “My arm’s asleep.”

Sherlock’s eyelashes have clumped together, the light has changed into something dull, and he has drooled onto John’s chest. 

Sherlock groggily rolls off of him, and pushes the covers down. He feels hot. He runs his hands over his face. “I fell asleep?” He can barely believe this. 

“I did too.” John sounds a little embarrassed. He looks good, cheeks flushed with sleep, the sheet pooled over his belly, one hairy leg poking from underneath. Sherlock can see his scar, raised and red still, a ragged line of Braille over his shoulder. Sherlock reaches out his hand and touches it. John lets him for a moment, then takes his hand and kisses his wrist, pulls him in for a real kiss. 

It’s warm and wet and a little uncoordinated, they’re both waking up still. 

When Sherlock slides his leg back over John’s side and lies on top of him he recognises the benefits of being naked already. He can feel the warmth of John’s penis, soft, heated and a little sticky against his own upper leg. He can feel it jump up as he leans on his hands and knees and slides, drags his own beginning of an erection over John’s belly, his legs, briefly between them, then up again. 

John answers with a long “Hmmm...” that Sherlock kisses off his lips. 

John rises up, turns them over with a laugh and gets on top, slides his own body over Sherlock’s for a slow drag. 

Sherlock pulls him in, so that John’s hands slip on the sheets and his full weight is suddenly resting on top of him, wraps him arms around John’s back, puts his feet over John’s legs and holds him there while he kisses him. 

They don’t make it to dinner. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock goes through withdrawal strapped to a hospital bed three times. The screeching pain, the sweat and diarrhoea, the cramps and itching and vomiting up burning bile. And the smell, in the end it’s always the smell that makes him beg for something, anything. 

He offers to give money to whomever walks through the door, he lies to them and cries, begs and screams, he deduces their lives, he tells them the worst secrets he can find in their eyes and backs and clumsy hands and yet they never give in. It’s Mycroft’s doing of course, the best facilities and programs every time and it’s the most humiliating experience of Sherlock’s life. It’s more than torture, it’s everything he is stripped bare, so as soon as he gets out on the street he gets high again, back to the comfort of that amazing lie. 

After that third time Mycroft comes to him and offers him everything. Any possible thing in the world. Money, sex, influence, someone to kill, he offers to lie down and have Sherlock take him apart with a knife, bit by bit and it’s a testament of how little he knows him at all that he even offers, Sherlock thinks. 

He asks to be left alone, and Mycroft does it. Mycroft walks away, holding back tears that Sherlock pretends not to see but that come back to him, even through the haze of drugs, more often than he wants them to. Mycroft leaves him. 

It’s only later, gasping and reaching towards his arm that he realises. He didn’t want to be left. 

 

\---

 

The Showstopper Challenge

Sherlock has a restless night lying next to John. He doesn’t manage to fall asleep again now that he knows that it might happen, so he watches John sleep for hours, then sneaks out before dawn because he is buzzing with energy and John’s slow breathing gets under his skin. 

What’s worse is that he knows that today is not going to be easy. It’s gingerbread, which means that the judges want cute, imaginative, whimsical, design over taste, which is not Sherlock’s strong suit. What he can give them is technically perfect though, and he is planning to do just that. 

He arrives in the Bake Off tent early, and waits for John to be done with breakfast. Once he arrives they set up together, and, used to the rhythm of the challenges now, everyone is ready to go quickly. The camera crew starts lighting, and the countdown begins. 

“Hello bakers and welcome to day two of biscuits and traybakes! Today we are asking for a special sort of showstopper, we are asking you to build a centrepiece out of gingerbread, but it cannot be something as simple as a gingerbread house. Think bigger and better. You have five whole hours to accomplish this in, so we expect to be wowed!” 

Sherlock spent weeks thinking about all possible designs for this challenge. He has multiple pages of drawings and sketches he brought along, hours and hours of preparation at home. He shares one last look with John. He can do this. He has to.

“Ready, get set, bake!” 

Sherlock immediately takes out his ginger roots. He has bought them fresh only two days ago in London, and he intends to grind them himself. Nearly everyone else will have powdered ginger with them which will make them initially move faster than him, he’s aware, but since they have so much time for this and the real thing does add an extra flavour he decided it would be doable. 

He quickly looks around the room. Yes, only Soo Lin has thought to bring fresh ones and she has opted for a young, green ginger. That’s good. 

Sherlock also has dark treacle to give a strong, slightly bitter flavour. Together with enough sugar, some cloves, nutmeg and cinnamon it should be a rich, dark version of gingerbread. 

He grinds his mature ginger roots in one of his antique grinders, careful to keep the moisture and to get it as close to pulp as possible. It’s hard work, and it takes a good ten minutes of manual labour, his hand cramping up and arm starting to protest, to get it done. It does give him a chance to watch everyone else at a point where none of them have time to watch him. The standard recipe for gingerbread is fairly easy, it only requires one bowl to mix all the ingredients in, but since they’re at week four by now and losing has become a very real possibility for most of them, everyone seems to have prepared a little extra. Sherlock sees Soo Lin quickly throw a handful of dried herbs into her bowl, although from this distance he can’t tell what they might be. 

Henry, perhaps aware that he will need to make an impression again like he did last week if he wants to stay, has some dried peppers he is planning to bake into his gingerbread. Sherlock thinks that he is probably being overambitious, with something as reminiscent of childhood as gingerbread the judges will be looking for something that is still recognisably sweet and pleasant to eat and not that spicy. 

Molly is keeping it simple with her recipe but Sherlock has seen her unpack a variety of piping bags and her supply of fondant in the fridge. She is playing to her strengths and going for decoration. Jim is going to be focusing on construction, Sherlock thinks, something intricate and large, probably.

Which leaves John, who, although he is always talking to the other contestants about baking rarely seems to bring it up when they’re together, so Sherlock doesn’t know exactly what his plan for the recipe is. But he has seen the design: John’s making the Roman Coliseum. He’s already stirring his mixture and Sherlock sees him using golden syrup so his end result will be golden brown and probably thick, slightly sticky inside. 

John will get to the final, Sherlock thinks. Maybe they’ll both be there, trying to out bake the other. Sherlock’s not sure if that’s what he’s hoping for. Too many variables. 

Grinding done, Sherlock browns the butter, mixes his ingredients into a smooth dough, and finally puts it in the refrigerator at a point where everyone else is already there, most walking around, having a chat. These long challenges never seem too difficult to begin with, but then by hour three the mood suddenly changes and everyone puts their head down and works. Sherlock likes that point, although he’s usually too involved with his own work to really appreciate it. But he doesn’t like this nearly as much, the social time, the build up. He hates sitting around and waiting. 

So he pretends to need something from the fridge up front, makes sure no one is watching him too closely, opens it and sticks his head in there to sniff Soo Lin’s dough. Really it would be pathetically easy to sabotage her. He can’t smell the herbs. He wants to taste, but he can hear someone walking up, so Sherlock closes the fridge door again just in time as there is a camera pointed his way. 

It is a bit unsettling. He doesn’t intend to influence anyone’s bakes in this way, but someone else might. He looks at Jim. He is talking to Soo Lin, his face near hers, voice low as he whispers something next to her ear. She wants to pull away, it’s obvious in her body language, but she doesn’t. Sherlock looks for John, who is off brewing a cup of tea with Henry, but Molly however is just cleaning her counter. He waves her over. 

“Yes? Hi, Sherlock.” She looks eager for his attention, as always. 

“Did Soo Lin ever tell you why she is afraid of Jim?” 

Molly frowns. “She’s not, afraid, I don’t think. She likes him, they go for walks together. Not like that though, she has a boyfriend. And um... he might have one, too. I don’t know.” 

Sherlock looks back over to their corner. Jim has stepped back a little, and they do look like friends to an untrained eye perhaps, although he doesn’t believe it for a second. 

Henry walks over towards them, a nearly full pink teacup and saucer in his hand. He is shaking a little and some of the tea spills over the top, onto the saucer and then drips onto his shoes. “Here, I’ve made you some tea.” 

Sherlock is about to accept as Molly says, “Oh, that’s so nice of you, Henry.” She pinks up a little to match the teacup. 

Sherlock walks away to talk to John. Useless, those two. 

 

\---

 

The fourth time Sherlock goes through withdrawal he is alone. He sinks down on a bank of the Thames and lays there, eyes open, shaking, looking at the water and traffic and the sky for forty-three hours straight, then walks himself to an emergency room. He wakes up hooked to an IV that he promptly rips out of his arm and leaves again before Mycroft can track him down. If he’s even still looking. 

Sherlock counts the hours without drugs. He makes it to a hundred, then more. He doesn’t know why. Nothing has changed. 

He eats, has the surreal experience of being in a grocery store for the first time in years and wanting to put it all into his mouth. He reads, goes to libraries, searches everything he has missed on biology, chemistry, criminology as well, he finds that he can appreciate a good corpse now. He looks for a room and finds the rent already paid. He needs clothes, and finds bags of them on his doorstep. The best Mycroft could do obviously, everything from underwear and towels to sharp suits that speak of some sort of image that Sherlock has no intention to project, so he wears them for experiments, for crawling in dumpsters, for mixing up explosive paint. 

He starts sitting in on pathology courses at London universities, chemistry, forensic psychology, purposely drops embalming fluid on his new two thousand pound shoes. 

It’s not a miracle. He still longs for a hit constantly, he still desperately wants to get high every second of every day. But he doesn’t. 

 

\---

 

Once the dough has cooled enough, Sherlock can finally get going. He spreads the gingerbread out in thin sheets over baking paper, and bakes it so that it will stiffen up nicely, but not too long so it is still malleable enough to work with. It smells nice, up close, and together with the clouds of smell coming from the other baker’s ovens the air is nearly overwhelmingly sweet and rich inside the tent. Sherlock thinks of searching the smell in John’s neck and clothes later, when they say goodbye. Licking his skin, sucking the spots that make him moan. 

But first, this. Sherlock wanted something architectural, difficult and precise to make, and in the end he chose the London Tower Bridge. Opened in 1894 it’s a very recognisable and integral part of London, and the structure itself is not overly complicated, two towers and then a lattice between them, and some hanging ropes on the sides. Ironically everything that made the bridge a sound design back then is still true when constructing it out of gingerbread today and it does work, providing he has the time to construct it all carefully. 

He has a list of the size of every piece he needs, so once the sheets of gingerbread are cooled he starts cutting, and then constructing. First the base, then the sides. He enjoys work like this, to get completely involved in the details and he allows himself to drift away, hands constructing, his mind running calculations and baking times. 

The next time Sherlock looks up it is because the “half hour” warning gets given, which means four and a half hours have passed, and gingerbread creations have sprouted up seemingly out of nowhere. 

Molly’s base design is fairly simple, a cuckoo clock hanging from a standard, but she has finished it already and is hand-shaping little birds out of marzipan and fondant to sit on top of the clock, around and beneath it, all with different colours and expressions, as well as piping tiles and plants on top of the clock. It looks very neat and professional and Sherlock thinks that she’s finally really showing her potential as a baker. 

Henry, on the other side of the scale, has made a large dog out of gingerbread. Sherlock hears him say, “I call it the hound!” to John, and laugh. His base is vaguely dog-like in shape, a little crooked, and he is using accents of chocolate to form its coat and eyes but the colour difference is not big enough to really make it pop. Although he does have red food colouring for the eyes. 

Soo Lin is still baking, and she has been smart enough not to rely on one big design, but multiples. She has a teapot made out of gingerbread that she’s glazing with a brush. It doesn’t look flashy, but very lifelike, almost antique, and then a whole array of teacups next to it that still need to cool down enough to be decorated. 

Sherlock looks back at his own work. The towers are mostly done, but he has lost a lot of time ensuring they are completely stable. He still needs to add the piece that connects them, which will hopefully help with the slight wobble, and then the side pieces, as well as pipe some accent lines. It’s a lot to do in thirty minutes. 

John’s Roman Coliseum next to him is even further from being done, John has to hold each piece in place with his fingers while it dries and Sherlock hears him sigh. He decides that he can both focus and talk a little, if necessary, and says, voice pitched low, “John, how much are you behind?” 

John looks very surprised to be spoken to, but he smiles quickly, “Ah... Hard to tell.” His back and forehead clearly broadcast that he’s under stress and uncertain about whether he’ll finish. 

“You can say that since it’s a ruin it’s supposed to be half finished.” Sherlock says, and catches another glimpse of a smile before he has to focus on aligning the bridge. Good thing he brought a builder’s level. 

He only gets to start piping with twelve minutes left on the clock, and to Sherlock’s surprise his hands are unsteady. He has to wipe a bit and redo it, it’s important that that the lines are perfectly straight. It is a building, he can’t just do this by eye, he needs a ruler, but the icing sticks to the ruler whenever he moves it from one line to the next so he has to wipe it down carefully in between and he doesn’t have time for this!

Jim, the show-off that he is, has already finished and put his work, a giant gingerbread spider web with a spider in the middle, on the edge of his counter while he twiddles his thumbs and whistles softly. Sherlock knows that he is doing it on purpose to pressure them even more but he really wishes he would just shut the hell up. Even John looks as if he’s about ready to club Jim over the head with a baking tray. 

Two minutes. Sherlock finishes piping, but has to scratch the idea he had for suggesting water underneath, no time, so he takes some powdered sugar. His hands are even more unsteady as he puts a few spoonfuls in a strainer and shakes it softly over the foot of his bridge. 

One minute. He puts the strainer aside, uses a serviette to wipe some of the excess icing, wipes the sides of the tray, and...

“Time! Stop touching your bakes, yes, right now!”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and steps away. 

Five hours of standing bent over a counter... He feels wrecked. He opens a water bottle, drinks deeply, and then looks around the room. John is still looking at his coliseum with a pained expression. It’s not bad, Sherlock thinks, but obviously he had wanted to do more. Molly has gone to sit down, fanning herself, and Henry asks for a bathroom break before judging, which finds immediate agreement from everyone in the room. 

Sherlock doesn’t have to go, but he follows them outside and stands by the side of the tent, lets the wind cool his heated face. John comes to stand next to him, and bumps his shoulder, briefly. Then, when Sherlock doesn’t pull away, just leans against him. 

Sherlock wishes he still smoked. A cigarette would be heaven around now. 

 

\---

 

The next time Sherlock sees Mycroft again it’s after one of those uni lectures. It’s been over a year since their last meeting, and Mycroft is waiting in the shadows of a long hallway. Sherlock thinks about passing him by in those few steps it takes to reach him. Pretending he means nothing to him anymore, because he knows Mycroft will let him. 

But then he makes the mistake of really looking at Mycroft. He looks sickly thin underneath his perfect suit. The lines of his face are much deeper than Sherlock has ever seen them, his shoulders tired, his hands are clenched around the handle of an umbrella as if it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He looks afraid to even breathe the wrong way, and Sherlock feels so little hate for him that it is nearly startling. So he smiles and says “You look like shit, brother mine.” 

And Mycroft bursts out something between a sigh and a cry, then looks him over, hungrily taking in every detail. 

Sherlock stands still and lets him. 

 

\---

 

After twenty minutes and a quick sandwich, they get called in again to face the judges and it feels too soon, as if they should be allowed so much more of a break after all that work. Sherlock looks at John. He hasn’t done that well this week, and he doesn’t look as if he feels good either. 

Judging starts in the back, and today Sherlock is up first. He’s aware that some find that stressful but he doesn’t mind, he prefers to get it over with quickly. 

“So, Sherlock, the London Tower Bridge! We don’t have to ask where you got your inspiration.” Mrs. Hudson winks. She knows how much Sherlock feels connected to London, to the energy of the city, the sound of millions, the pulse of endless innovation, cruel and majestic alike. He wouldn’t feel at home anywhere else. 

“I wanted to use an architectural structure for this bake to show my construction skills.” Sherlock says. 

“Yes, I can tell.” Lestrade is squinting, looking up close from all angles. “For as far as I can see this is a generally perfect representation of the Tower Bridge.” 

“It’s to scale,” Sherlock adds, pleased that Lestrade recognises this. Within reason, obviously. 

“But is it art?” Lestrade asks. “I can see your talent, I do, but where is the innovation, the decoration, how is this you?” 

Sherlock frowns. “It’s not me, it’s a gingerbread bridge.” Jim snorts in the background, and Molly covers her mouth. 

Lestrade looks like he is preparing to argue, but Mrs. Hudson smoothly interjects, “Right, boys, why don’t we have a taste then, shall we?” She breaks the roof off from one of the towers and Sherlock has to hold back not to flinch. She smells the piece first, and then carefully tastes. Lestrade breaks off a larger piece, and pops it into his mouth. 

It’s only a couple seconds but as always their tasting seems to last forever until Mrs. Hudson says, “Hmmm, it’s good, quite spicy, isn’t it? I can feel it on my tongue.” 

“Yes, very dark.” Lestrade says. “I get the ginger, and the treacle really comes through as well. Not bad at all.” 

Mrs. Hudson smiles encouragingly, and they move on to John. 

Sherlock sits down. It’s incredibly frustrating to figure out what on earth these judges want. His build is near-perfect, he knows that. Then how can they treat that as some vague negative? 

John’s creation gets a couple laughs right of the bat. His Coliseum is, very clearly, unfinished. But what is there is solid, well-shaped and baked, and good-looking. Sherlock thinks it might have worked for a photograph, where they only need the one side. Sadly the cameraman is filming it from all sides, and the judges are looking at every angle. They take a piece from the ‘rubble’ that John provided- Sherlock thinks that in the end he did take his ruin comment to heart, and taste. 

“Great taste.” Mrs. Hudson says. “Traditional, soft on the inside, a classic really.” 

Lestrade agrees. “You just ran out of time, that’s all, otherwise really well done.” 

John accepts their comments with grace, and then looks at Sherlock. He looks quite worn out, and he sits down immediately, cane at his side. 

Henry’s dog is still wobbly, and frankly much too scary to serve as a centrepiece for a children’s birthday party as he is claiming. They would run away screaming, Sherlock thinks, and while he doesn’t know much about children but he would assume they do not like to find random bits of chopped pepper inside their gingerbread either. 

Molly’s cuckoo clock gets praised into heaven and back, as expected. Sherlock notes that they say little about the taste, except that it is traditionally flavoured and good, and everything about the little birds and decorations, that are all edible and all individual and charming and the finish is faultless. Molly glows under the praise. To be truthful, it probably is the best thing she has made in the entire completion. This is what she does well, Sherlock thinks, childish things, decoration. 

Jim’s spider web is huge, well-constructed and deceivingly delicate-looking, he has strings of spun sugar as a finishing touch, and his spider looks grotesque in a funny way. His story about a scary Halloween party sells it to the judges, too. 

Which leaves Soo Lin for last. She has decorated her tea cups with Chinese characters, one for luck, one for love, one for (and her voice catches, Sherlock notes) courage. The judges like the idea, but aren’t completely sold on the flavour the herbs are giving the gingerbread. She accepts their comments gracefully. 

The judges, conscious of the fact that it has been a very long day, ask them to take a seat up front to be judged. Sherlock sees Mrs. Hudson glance at John. Nobody says it, but they all know why they are suddenly doing this seated. John looks too beat to care. 

“First of all,” Lestrade says, “for this week’s star baker...” 

Sherlock looks around the group. It’s not hard to predict.

“A very talented young lady, Molly!” 

Molly cries out in disbelief and happily hugs Soo Lin and then Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock sees Henry shift on his chair, ready to hug her as well, but she doesn’t notice and goes to sit down again. 

“And now for our least favourite part...” Mrs. Hudson looks around compassionately. Henry is looking at the floor, it’s obvious he is preparing to be called. “Henry, I’m so sorry.” 

Henry stays in his seat. “Yeah, it hasn’t been going well. But I...” his voice breaks and he glances briefly at Molly, then looks more fully at John. “I wanted to tell you all I am so glad that I got the chance to do this. I will never forget it.” 

Sherlock sees Soo Lin give Molly a little push in the back, and she slips off her chair and goes over to Henry. She hugs him briefly, Henry saying, “Congratulations Molly, you really deserve it, I’ll be rooting for you...” and then the others swoop in for hugs and goodbyes.

And that’s it. Another weekend done. 

While the others say goodbye Sherlock looks at John. He knows that John doesn’t like to be helped, that he prefers it if people pretend not to see the cane at all, but at this point that’s sort of ridiculous, he’s in obvious pain.

“I can walk you to your taxi,” Sherlock says, which means they won’t get to kiss much, which means he doesn’t mind that as long as it gets John home without looking the way he does, with something tight around his eyes. 

John looks at him regretfully. “That... yeah, ok, good.” 

Sherlock carefully takes John’s hand, supports him slightly rising up off his chair, and when he feels that John is actually using him to lean on he offers him his arm. Sherlock has never done that before with anyone, and he’s not actually certain about how to hold someone up. John is shorter than him, John’s use of his cane means that he sways, so they bump together strangely at every step, plus their steps aren’t evenly matched. But Sherlock gets the hang of it after a while. 

Mrs. Hudson is waiting for them at the exit. She looks concerned for John, and then a little surprised at Sherlock, but happily so. Sherlock is aware of what a sight they must make, but he finds that he doesn’t care much. “Are you alright, boys?” she asks, softly. 

Sherlock is suddenly so glad for her, this woman, who genuinely just wants to know whether they’ll be okay. 

But John is uncomfortable, stiff against Sherlock’s side, and already pulling away. “Fine.” he says, his voice strained. 

Sherlock instantly dislikes the loss of his usefulness. He likes being this thing for John. So he holds John close, and holds out his other arm to Mrs. Hudson, “I can escort you as well if you like.” He briefly thinks of how proud and absolutely stunned Mummy would be at seeing this. It would make her month. 

Mrs. Hudson accepts Sherlock’s arm gratefully, half-hugs him for a moment, and then lets go, “No, that’s alright, you go on ahead dears, I’ve still got some things to do.” She winks at Sherlock. He throws her a grateful look.

John doesn’t pull away again as they walk over the gravel and grass, past the trees, to where the cars will be. He says, “I...” and then thinks better of it. 

Sherlock doesn’t press him. He enjoys the rhythm of walking together silently like this. He’s aware that John is hurting next to him but he’s warm and steady and it’s calming. When they reach the cars Sherlock wishes they could have gone on even longer, but John’s taxi is waiting. Some people have gone already, but the parking lot is still mostly filled with people saying goodbye and loading their cars with baking and production material. 

John untangles himself, and Sherlock looks at him. Does he want a kiss goodbye? Is this too public? John doesn’t seem to be giving clear direction, so Sherlock leans in and presses his lips softly to John’s. It’s brief, but it makes John smile. 

“Next week.” Sherlock says.

“Next week.” John agrees, and gets in the car, his eyes still on Sherlock. Sherlock watches him drive away. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock edits a couple papers of his course mates with giant red letters of ‘WRONG’, then gets asked to do more, and, for the first time in his life, starts making a little money. By the time he moves in with Mrs. Hudson his days are filled with experiments and disproving every idiot theory he can find, sometimes consulting for the police on suspected poisonings, and when she mistakes him for a fine young man, he strangely doesn’t have the heart to correct her. 

He immediately likes Baker Street and all it entails, it’s all his, and so is Mycroft’s slightly uncomfortable look every time he has to walk up those stairs, as if he can’t believe that this is where Sherlock has chosen to end up but he is not about to complain about it either. 

Sherlock starts baking, loses himself in that for months, and then on his first Christmas there finds a brand new violin sitting in his chair. Sherlock had sold his old one for drugs years ago. As he touches the violin, he thinks that he can barely remember how to play and he is right, his first attempt results in a few sharp, hesitant notes. A screech, a drag, and then a melody, slow because his fingers have gotten clumsy and soft. 

It becomes something of an obstacle; Sherlock avoids even looking at it for days and then suddenly finds he can’t walk past it any longer, plays for hours until his fingers blister and his neck strains and his calves cramp from standing up. On some of those nights Mycroft comes over and listens for a while from the stairwell, he knows. 

One night Mycroft leaves something behind. Set next to the door is their very first, shared, violin. Sherlock looks at it for a long moment before picking it up. It looks so small now in his hands. Battered, smeared with fingerprints. He’s sure Mycroft left it with the expectation he will do something cathartic to it. Burn it, destroy it, splinter it with a hammer perhaps. 

Instead Sherlock keeps it under his bed, hidden except for the few times he takes it out and runs his fingers over the scarred wood. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock needs to go back to the tent to collect his materials, but he takes the long way around. He lets the wind push on his clothes, walks in between the trees and flowers, gets on his knees to study them now that he has some free time. 

When he gets back to the marquee everyone has left, and the sun is setting, bathing it in shadows before dark. It still smells like baking. Someone has neatly piled all his supplies on top of his counter but otherwise left them alone. Sherlock’s gingerbread bridge is gone, together with all the other gingerbread creations, to be given to needy children or something like that, he wasn’t exactly listening, but he still has the piece he baked extra. Sherlock gathers up his things, and when he looks up there is a familiar silhouette of a man in a suit, leaning on his umbrella, at the entrance. 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says. He’s tired, and he doesn’t mind if Mycroft reads it in his face and his voice right now. It will make him leave faster. 

Mycroft walks into the tent carefully, always conscious of not belonging, his brother is. “I thought you might want to know that Soo Lin was being threatened. My surveillance stopped her from being taken on the way home.” 

“By Jim?” Sherlock asks. He still thinks it seems likely, he just doesn’t know how, and why. 

“Apparently not.” Mycroft obviously regrets even having to say that. “She was involved with the Black Lotus back in China, seems they caught up with her and were extorting her, forcing her to steal from the museum. She won’t be coming back, she has accepted our offer of... lucrative relocation.” 

Sherlock knows what that means. He also guesses that the offer was a tad more lucrative since she was doing well as his competition. So she urgently needed large amounts of money... Even if Jim wasn’t behind it he might have picked up on it and made her an offer of his own. 

It’s hard to tell in this light but Mycroft looks pale, ill at ease, a little sweaty even though the wind is picking up outside, beating on the side of the tent. Of course. The smell. 

Sherlock wonders whether he’s eaten anything since the piece of tiffin he sent him yesterday. 

Mycroft is about ready to go, he’s said what he had to, so Sherlock reaches into the proving drawer where he’s kept the piece of gingerbread because it would stay warm longer, and yes, it still is. He puts it on a plate on his counter. It’s as large as his hand. 

Mycroft leans in a little to look. 

Sherlock pushes the plate forward. 

Mycroft steps towards the counter. “This is John’s?” His voice sound perfectly normal, but Sherlock knows it’s controlled tightly. He’s using John’s name as a weapon. A reminder of who he is supposed to give things like this to now. 

“No.” Sherlock suspects that John is thoroughly done with gingerbread for the moment and would refuse it even if he wanted to give it to him. He baked that piece with the intention to send it to Mycroft’s room, but now that Mycroft is here he finds that he doesn’t simply want to give it to him to take with him. “Not John’s.” 

Mycroft’s eyes wander over the piece of gingerbread, so innocuous between them, and then to Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock is fairly sure that Mycroft has been eating what he’s sent him. But suddenly he wants to see it. He wants to see Mycroft give in, break down in front of him and have a taste. It’s a familiar feeling, but one that Sherlock hasn’t felt in years. Nothing about this is right anymore. 

Sherlock considers, and breaks a corner off of the gingerbread. It’s a small piece, just a mouthful. He holds it out in his hand. He isn’t sure whether Mycroft will take it. Sherlock can predict nearly everything about everyone else but never Mycroft, not to this degree, he is too clever, too calculating, too maudlin in his own particular way. “Try a piece.”

Mycroft takes a breath, hesitates, and then, staring at the offered gingerbread, says, “Of course, thank you.” 

Sherlock hands it over, and their fingers touch briefly. 

Sherlock watches, muscles tight with anticipation as Mycroft opens his mouth, so very slowly puts the gingerbread on his tongue, and closes his eyes to taste. Sherlock leans forward, and he feels as if he is tasting it along with Mycroft, the texture of crumble on sensitive lips. The initial blast of sweetness from the sugar and cinnamon. The slight tang of ginger, the warmth of nutmeg. The soft crunch between teeth, the decadence of the swallow. And the warm lingering aftertaste. 

Mycroft opens his eyes. 

Sherlock breaks off a larger piece and hands it to Mycroft’s slightly cold, clammy fingers. “More?” 

Mycroft doesn’t hesitate, just puts it in his mouth and bites down, and Sherlock bites his lips when he hears the crunch. Oh. 

He breaks off another piece and puts it in Mycroft’s hand. Their eyes stay connected as Mycroft tastes this time. He carefully chews, his mouth moving, and swallows. 

Sherlock thinks of putting his fingers in Mycroft’s mouth along with the gingerbread and have him suck them. Whether he wants to, whether he’ll let him. He thinks of licking Mycroft’s mouth until he groans, he thinks of bending him over the counter and fingering him until he screams, he could fuck him and Mycroft would take it, Mycroft... 

It’s overwhelming and he can see it reflected back at him in Mycroft’s eyes, slowly spinning out of control. Mycroft knows exactly what he’s thinking. He’s thinking it, too. And he shouldn’t. John. 

Sherlock breaks another piece and offers it to Mycroft’s lips so that he just has to open his mouth and take it. He does.

Mycroft still wants this. The idea bounces around in Sherlock’s head, finds bursts of conflicted joy at every thought it touches. Their fingers tangle together, slick, crumbs on both their fingertips, Mycroft puts his hand on the counter and Sherlock presses on it, hard. Mycroft opens his mouth and sucks the next piece off of Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock’s breath catches. John. 

The light is slowly fading from the tent, it is getting more difficult to see, hazy between them. Sherlock reaches his hand over the counter and traces the heavy wool of Mycroft’s trousers, feel the shape of his erection underneath. Mycroft shudders as he presses harder. His quick shallow breaths smell like gingerbread. 

Sherlock feeds him another piece, one hand on his lips, feeling him eat one, then another, making him suck his thumb, his body unconsciously rocking along with Mycroft’s, the other pressed to Mycroft’s erection, slowly tracing figures over it. 

The last piece is tiny, and Sherlock presses it between Mycroft’s lips, filled with regret. He should have baked more. Why didn’t he bake more. Mycroft is so thin. So hungry. He tries to open Mycroft’s trousers one handed. 

Mycroft stops him, puts his hand on Sherlock’s. He’s shaking. “Sherlock...” It’s nearly dark, and Mycroft is a pale shape now, but the regret, the sheer hurt in his voice is enough. “Don’t.” 

Sherlock pulls his hands away, and his throat closes. He couldn’t reply even if he had some idea of what to say.

Mycroft sounds raw. “Don’t offer this to me.” And walks away.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Puddings and Desserts (John)

 

 

The Signature Bake

It’s ten in the morning, and John is standing outside the Bake Off tent. He had to get up at dawn again to get here on time, so it’s nice to just relax for a minute in the morning sunlight and have a cup of tea. It’s finally starting to feel like summer out.

It’s been a long week. John knows that he can’t afford to neglect his blog, but he can’t stop dwelling on future bakes, thinking about ingredients and recipes and baking temperatures. It’s getting harder to come up with blog posts that are well-researched and interesting when his mind is just on the Bake Off non-stop. When he’s not fearing that his leg will give out for real this time, he’s thinking about Sherlock. He wakes up in the middle of the night afraid that he left the oven on, with dreams of botched soufflés and combat zones and kissing all in one. 

He reminds himself to be realistic about it all constantly. To enjoy it while it lasts, because soon he’ll be alone again with nothing to look forward to, no competition to win, no Sherlock naked in his bed. But for now... John takes a sip of tea. For now, he’s damn well going to enjoy this. 

As if on cue, Sherlock appears in the distance, curls wind-blown, sleeves rolled up to show his forearms. He is carrying a large crate, filled to the brim with today’s ingredients and his coat folded on top. He looks gorgeous. 

Sherlock notices him from afar, and as he reaches John he looks at him for a long moment, eyes a bright grey. John smiles, and wonders what he sees. That he hasn’t slept well in weeks? That’s he’s really looking forward to today? The crate Sherlock’s holding is in the way, but John reaches out and pulls Sherlock towards him anyway. Their lips press together in a short hello. 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, a _really, John?_ But he seems pleased by it none the less. 

John grins and follows him into the tent. 

There are only four counters left today. John already heard the rumour from one of the camera guys this morning: Soo Lin has given up. He briefly hoped that they would bring Henry back in her stead, but it’s obvious they aren’t. John’s name is on a counter all the way up front now, with Jim to his right and just Molly and Sherlock behind him. 

Sherlock doesn’t seem surprised by the sudden reorganisation, just looks for his own name and puts his crate down, but then he lives with Mrs. Hudson, so he probably already knew. Jim shrugs philosophically, but Molly is upset and says she has no idea why Soo Lin would leave like this. John can’t imagine why either; she was doing well, she probably would have made it to the final for sure. 

And now there’s only four of them left. 

Sherlock is always a little aloof, especially when the cameras are on them, and Molly is too preoccupied with the thought of Soo Lin and whether she’s okay, but John can see that realisation reflected in Jim’s self-righteous expression as well. The four of them are all what’s left. The top four bakers on the Bake Off. Wow.

Lestrade comes in, and raises his voice, “By now you’ve all realised that Soo Lin is gone, we will miss her but it’s not going to change anything about today’s challenges, so we’re still starting with sponge puddings, okay?” 

John nods. It wouldn’t make sense to change the line-up, all of them have been practising for these bakes specifically, so it would be a disaster to suddenly change things around. 

The light gets adjusted, cameras turned on, and John takes his apron. 

Well, then. Time to make it to the top three. 

 

\---

 

Mum dies, Dad loses his job, and they go from middle class to poor in less than a year. 

John’s shoes get worn out, and there’s old bread for lunch. Walking instead of taking the bus, eating from tins. There’s moving into a worse neighbourhood, into a house that smells like mildew and bedrooms that freeze in winter. 

John misses her. He feels bad for all the times he hated her, hated that she couldn’t come to the school plays and parents’ evenings, for all the Christmases and birthdays where Dad wrapped the gifts and decorated the tree, and she was nothing but a smile in a chair. John feels bad for the times he told his friends he didn’t have a mother, all the times he was ashamed of her. He feels bad that he can’t remember her face very well. Or the touch of her hands. 

It makes him want to kick things, but he can’t. Harry is already breaking everything. 

 

\---

 

Mrs. Hudson, dressed in a purple flower dress today, makes the opening speech. “This week is going to be all about puddings and desserts! For the first challenge we will be asking you to make two different flavoured sponge puddings, six of each, and you have two hours to make them in.” 

Lestrade adds evenly, “Ready everyone, set, bake!” and they’re off. 

Two different sponge puddings means twice the work in the same amount of time they normally would get for one. John knows exactly what he wants to do, of course. The first one was an easy choice: sticky toffee pudding. It’s a good recipe and a crowd pleaser, he’s never met anyone who doesn’t like it. And for the second he wants something more tangy than overwhelmingly sweet, so he’s making a rhubarb and strawberry pudding as well. 

He starts with preheating the oven and boiling the rhubarb down, and then mixing in the blackcurrant and some caster sugar. He whisks butter and egg whites, greases his moulds, and then adds in the strawberries. They smell delicious, so he pops one in his mouth too. Molly has raspberries and she’s eating some of hers as well. She grins at him.

The tent feels a little empty today with only the four of them baking. Quiet. It’s nice to be able to focus, John thinks, but it makes it all feel less like a light-hearted cooking class and more like an exam of some sort. The judges are watching them closely. 

The puddings have to be baked surrounded by water to ensure an even bake. John places his six little pots into a roasting tray, pours water into that and then carefully bends and shoves the whole thing into the oven. He manages to keep it all level, but taking them out again will be hard, his oven at home isn’t nearly so low. 

They need twenty five to thirty minutes to bake, which means he has that time to finish the preparations for the second batch. John leans against his counter for a moment, runs his hands over his face, and rolls his shoulders and his neck. So far he’s on schedule. 

Jim, to his right, is doing something with breadcrumbs and flour and a big hunk of meat today. It’s very old-fashioned, suet. If it works it might be interesting for on the blog. And it probably will, sadly John has no doubt that Jim knows what he’s doing. 

Sherlock’s carefully adding a couple drops of Elderflower liqueur into his mix using a pipette, having an eye for nothing else but that. There could be a bomb going off and Sherlock wouldn’t notice, John thinks, and then at other times it’s as if he can see everything in the world. He looks the same as ever, focused expression, but underneath he looks a little worn. Probably tired, as well. John remembers last week. Maybe they can have a nap again later. And sex, all the sex they can fit into an evening, please. 

For the sticky toffee pudding, John uses the food processor. He doesn’t have one at home but it does come in handy to save some time. He can just pour everything in, first butter and sugar, then golden syrup, treacle and eggs, then flour, all a little at a time, press the button and watch it mix itself into a smooth blend. 

Molly’s raspberry puddings are the first to come out of the oven, and she too seems a little nervous pulling her tray with boiling water out and raising it onto her counter, but she manages it without splashing herself. When his strawberry and rhubarb puddings are done John kneels, pull them half-way out of the oven, then get himself up awkwardly and lifts them on the counter that way. He exchanges them for the sticky toffee ones, and then takes some time to clean up. 

Jim’s cutting bananas, Molly’s working with chocolate now, and Sherlock’s second batch involves lemon curd and another type of liqueur. John catches a small, calculating smile on his lips. Sherlock baking to win this week, that much’s obvious. They all are. 

When John’s sticky toffee puddings come out he decorates the cooled first batch, then makes the cream for the sauce and finishes with a couple minutes to spare. Good. He much prefers this over the last minute desperation from last week’s gingerbread fiasco. 

Molly’s fondant looks perfect but she’s still adding finishing touches. Sherlock is hurriedly glazing his lemon puddings. Jim is adding ground cloves to his second batch.

“Three, two, one, and that’s it, time!” 

This challenge feels like it went smoothly for all of them, John thinks, but then the first one usually does. 

With only four people left to judge they get right to it. First up is Jim, and he basks under the attention as always. 

Mrs. Hudson looks impressed, “Clootie dumplings! Well that’s something I never thought we’d see in this competition. It’s a very old recipe, isn’t it?” 

It is, and Jim has done his research. They’re all treated to a five-minute spiel about the history of the technique. John finds he is interested despite himself, Jim is a pompous arse but he does know what he’s talking about. 

His second batch is less extraordinary, banana and clove puddings, and the taste is “a bit odd,” Lestrade says, but John’s quite sure they’ll forgive him for that pretty much instantly. 

Then it’s John’s turn. Mrs. Hudson slices his sticky toffee pudding first, and as John hoped, she likes it. “Hmmm, John, this really is sticky and rich, isn’t it? Lovely.” 

They don’t like his rhubarb and strawberry combination as much, Lestrade notes it is “A little plain and expected.” 

John feels disappointed but he has to admit that he probably has a point. Looking around this room, he should have gone with something more exotic. 

Sherlock is next, and they think his elderflower pudding tastes delicate and “just right.” but it is his second batch, his sticky lemon puddings, that Mrs. Hudson gets lyrical about. “Oh, this is just great. I can really taste the limoncello.” 

Lestrade thinks that it is too strong but his lacklustre protest gets buried under Mrs. Hudson’s enthusiasm, “I think it’s amazing! Oh, it’s like candy for grown-ups, isn’t it?” 

John wonders whether Sherlock knew that Mrs. Hudson had a weak spot for the flavour and made it on purpose. She even takes one with her ‘for later’. 

John looks at Sherlock, but he doesn’t meet his eyes. He can’t wait to try those.

Last up is Molly, her raspberry and white chocolate pudding tastes nice, her pieces of white chocolate are a little too large and it makes the whole pudding overly sweet, but her chocolate fondant is, like John thought, made expertly. She seems relieved, and that is it, the cameras turn off, break for lunch. 

John is ready to walk over to Sherlock’s counter and taste his puddings, or suggest a walk outside again, but Sherlock turns away and leaves right behind some people of the crew, walking as fast as he can. 

John watches him go, confusion settling in his stomach. 

 

\---

 

John is twelve when Harry tells him she’s a lesbian. Harry drops out of school that year too, gets her first tattoo in the back of a garage, shaves her head into a mohawk and starts working in a bar, so John isn’t really impressed by much anymore. 

Dad disappears for weeks at a time and when he comes home it’s always with regrets, bloodshot eyes and an empty wallet. They both learn to do without him. 

Later, John feels awkward about it for a while, Harry’s string of girlfriends, the noises he hears through the wall at night. But Harry is Harry, she yells louder and hits harder than anyone else trying to tell her what she can and can’t do. So it’s fine, and eventually it becomes something of pride, to John. He’s Harry’s brother. He’ll always be. 

 

\---

 

After Sherlock practically runs out of the tent, John walks with Molly to lunch. They talk about John’s sticky toffee recipe, Molly’s fondant, Soo Lin’s departure, and theorise about what the technical will be about. Sherlock’s behaviour nags at him, but if he wants to be alone for a bit then that’s fine too, John decides. Sherlock does always get very involved in the challenges, maybe he needs a second to clear his head, it’s not as if they need to spend every lunch break together. 

They’ve put some tables outside today in honour of the sunshine, and there are not enough candidates left to fill a whole table, so Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are eating with them. Molly asks Jim about what he did with the suet, and to John’s surprise Jim answers all of her questions graciously, Lestrade weighs in, then agrees to maybe do a guest post for John’s blog about it after the Bake Off has aired, and most of the two hour lunch break is done by the time that John gets away. 

He finds Sherlock close to where they kissed the second week, sitting beneath a tree, hands folded underneath his chin, expression stony. 

John walks over to him, puts his cane down, and lowers himself into the grass. It’s not comfortable, in fact most of his muscles protest while he does so, but he is capable of it. The sun is filtering through the trees overhead. There’s a slight breeze. There are birds chirping nearby, and every once in a while a fragment of shouting or laughter on the wind from the crew having their lunch. It’s peaceful. 

John eyes Sherlock, half expecting him to have a moment of panic about the technical bake again. Or complain about the fact that he hasn’t won yet, or obsess about some revelation he’s just had. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock looks at him, then says quickly. “John. Do you need me to be faithful to you?”

John moves back a little. Oh. That’s... He’s silent for a long moment. “Um. Right. I haven’t really... I don’t know?” 

Sherlock is looking at his hands.

“You would rather not?” John tries to will away the sinking feeling of disappointment. Sherlock has made it clear that he doesn’t want much more than friendship for now, so John is trying to stick to that, no matter how much more he’d like. 

“I’m... uncertain.” 

They only see each other two days a week. John suddenly wonders what Sherlock does, in between. Whether he has someone else in his bed on those nights. The thought stings, more so than he wants to think about. John’s mind turns uncomfortably. 

Then a horrible thought occurs to him. “Sherlock?” 

“Yes?”

“Please tell me you are not sleeping with Jim.” 

Sherlock looks scandalised. “Absolutely not.” 

“Well, thank god for that.” John smiles briefly, lets go of some of the tension. 

Sherlock smiles back, hesitantly. 

“No, you don’t need to be. Faithful.” John tries to be realistic. He doesn’t want this to end yet, so if that’s what Sherlock wants... Although he would like it, John thinks again, feeling a wave of jealousy for whoever it is that makes Sherlock even ask. “It’s fine.” 

Sherlock looks at him sharply. “You’re certain?” 

“Yes.” John has done casual before, he can do it again. He knows he’s much too damaged to have anything real anyway. Sherlock is attractive, brilliant. When he finds out who John really is, how boring, how empty his life is, this is never going to work. But if John doesn’t need to be everything... He can see it, suddenly. Meeting up once a week in London, baking together, having fun, then going back to their normal lives, Sherlock sleeping with who he wants. It might work. 

The trees rustle behind him, and Sherlock looks at him consideringly. “John... This will be hard for you to underst...”

But John reaches out, and kisses him. 

John was intending to make it soft, a confirmation of sorts, but Sherlock sighs, his tongue warm and skilled and John finds himself pushing for harder, more, the idea that Sherlock still wants him, at least. And Sherlock gives it back, turns the kiss into something long and sensual, a homage to what they are together, how well they fit, how good it feels. 

John is breathless when they break apart. Sherlock’s eyes are shining with something tender. 

He can do this, John thinks. It’s worth it. 

 

\---

 

John has sex for the first time when he’s fourteen. 

Her name is Claire and she’s seventeen, and later he can’t remember why her, only that her smile was a shy one. He touches her nipples through her thin t-shirt, traces the warm wet fabric of her underwear with his fingers. John has heard enough from Harry’s friends and Dad’s lewd jokes to know what he’s supposed to do but he’s sure he mucks it up because he fumbles opening the condom and once he’s actually inside her he comes within the minute. But Claire likes him anyway. 

Later Harry throws him a ‘my little brother got laid’ party, and gets so drunk she falls down the stairs and breaks her elbow, one of her friends vomits on the carpet, another clogs the loo and the neighbours call the cops on them. 

But John thanks her anyway, because that’s the thing about Harry. She always means well. 

 

\---

 

As Sherlock’s hands deliberately move downwards and touch John’s belt though, John stops him. “Hey, no.” 

“Why not?” Sherlock asks, eyes intent. He frowns. “You said it’s fine.”

“It is.” John’s also sitting on cold grass and leaves, and a collection of surprisingly hard tree roots. They’re near enough to the crew that they could be disturbed at any time, his leg and hip are sending hot bursts of pain all the way to his side. He enjoyed that kiss, he really, really did but he’s not hard at all. 

“Tonight, in bed, okay?” John says, and it feels good to be able to say this, to assume that Sherlock will be in his bed. 

“Please.” Sherlock uses that word like a rare treat. 

John sighs. “Sherlock, I’m not exactly in the mood here.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Sherlock says, eyes fixed on John’s very much not aroused crotch. 

John feels a rush of annoyance. God, he’s not even sure he’s going to be able to get up from the ground by himself, or at least not without an embarrassing on-all-fours manoeuvre. He’s not... ‘whole,’ his mind supplies, then, predictably, ‘of course he wants more than you.’ “Help me up.”

“Why?” Sherlock says, visibly disappointed.

“Just...” John doesn’t want to feel even more decrepit than he already does. “Because my damn leg hurts!” 

Sherlock, to his credit, does so straight away. He grabs the cane, hands it to John and stands up himself in one graceful movement, then pulls John up under his right armpit. It’s sort of amusing how much he wants to be helpful, John thinks, grunting as he strains to get up. He leans against the tree and holds on to his cane, waits for the flashes of pain to die down. 

Sherlock’s hand is on his chest, holding him in place. He doesn’t say anything, although his eyes are travelling over John’s face, and down to his trembling leg, evaluating him, John thinks. He waits for the predictable look of pity, sorry John, you’re nice but I also like to sleep with younger, hotter people who can run and walk up stairs without grimacing. It doesn’t come. 

Instead it’s a look that’s almost daring. “Lower your pants.” 

John can’t believe that that is what Sherlock’s still thinking of. The ‘No, you bastard!’ is on his lips, and so are a whole string of choice curse words. But at least he doesn’t feel like a cripple, like this. With Sherlock licking his lips. Pushing him into something he doesn’t want, exactly, although maybe he does. 

John opens his zip, unbuckles his belt and lets his trousers and underwear fall down to his knees. There.

He feels ridiculous leaning against a tree with his bare arse, showing off his soft cock. He also feels defiant. Yes, he can do this. Yes, he’s not afraid of Sherlock or whoever it is he’s screwing. 

Sherlock sinks down to his knees. Leans in to smell him, touches him reverently. Sherlock’s focus, his obvious delight at him makes John feel something hard in his chest despite himself. He looks away. 

Sherlock licks him, and takes his soft penis into his mouth completely. It doesn’t feel the same as it would if he was aching for it, but it’s still there, the warmth, the slickness of Sherlock’s mouth. John feels himself fill out a little. Sherlock moves him around in his mouth with his tongue, then lets him go and kisses the side of his thighs, his aching leg. John tenses and his cheeks heat up, from anger, still, embarrassment at his little outburst. Sherlock senses it and takes him in his mouth again, softly sucks the head. 

John looks at the branches overhead, feels the wind against his face. Birds are tousling the leaves. He still has a hand on his cane. His shoulders are pressed into the tree bark, pants around his knees. Sherlock’s curls are tickling the edge of his belly. He can feel himself reacting despite the pain. 

After a minute or so there’s noise further down the path, crew members walking to the tent, and Sherlock freezes, face pressed against John’s thigh. John feels his sigh more than hears it. 

“It’s time.” John says, not sure, but it must be. 

Sherlock gets up, wipes the dirt from his knees and looks at him searchingly again, a little flushed, a lot what, guilty? 

John pulls up his pants and fastens his trousers, then tries to get some of the bits of grass and tree off of his back. His cock feels wet, he’s half-hard in his pants and it’s strange, much more so than if he would have come into Sherlock’s mouth. He nods. “Let’s go.” 

 

\---

 

It’s at uni that John really learns how to touch women, how to make them come with his hands and tongue and sometimes, with his cock alone. He learns when to push, when not to. He tells them all they’re beautiful, and they are, soft beneath his hands, wet and willing. He whispers compliments into their ears, he wakes them up with kisses, bakes them breakfast, he takes long baths with them and goes out to buy ice-cream at night. 

He’s a good boyfriend except for the fact that he’s an even better one-night stand, and he gets a bit of a reputation for dating one girl after the other. 

John likes them all, wants them all, so he learns how to appear unassuming, gallant, how to be well liked and it’s hard, sometimes, to keep that up together with studying, dragging Harry from a party when she calls him at four in the morning, and the odd job he needs to do to for money, but he never stops to wonder why. Why he likes to feel needed so much. 

 

\---

 

The Technical Challenge

John feels a little shaky on his legs walking into the tent, and he suspects Sherlock probably doesn’t have his mind on competing right now either. But there’s nothing to it, they have to bake. 

“Today’s technical challenge features another one of Mrs. Hudson’s amazing recipes.” Lestrade smiles. 

Mrs. Hudson glows under his praise and answers, “What we’re asking you to create is a Crème caramel, and you get two and three-quarter hours to finish it in. Good luck!” 

Crème caramel. John reads the instructions carefully. Focus, he reminds himself. Just focus on this.

He has made caramel before, as well as custard, so combining the two shouldn’t be too difficult. With just four ingredients, milk, sugar, vanilla and eggs, the recipe seems very basic. There must be a catch to it somewhere though, they’re in week five and it can’t be this simple. 

Jim is smiling, which is always a bit of a bad sign, John thinks. Jim is starting to be synonymous with a perfect technical bake. Molly seems fairly pleased with the assignment as well. Sherlock John doesn’t want to look at just yet, but it seems like something that he must have made before, he knows his French classics. 

John starts by putting a saucepan with water on the heat, and adds sugar to make caramel. Caramel is tricky because it continues to darken and thicken even when it’s moved off the heat. It can crystallise, it burns easily, it can be too soft or too bitter. John doesn’t like the flavour that much, but it’s always been an easy hit because it requires so little work to make. Actually the secret is to just let it bubble away, he’s found. He doesn’t even stir it. 

He does see Jim stirring, as well as Sherlock. Molly waits it out, but her first attempt burns, John can smell it clearly before she does. 

John gets a bowl of water ready, adds ice from the freezer, and as soon as his caramel hits that golden colour he takes it off the heat and sets the pan into the water. It hisses and steams, but it does work to cool it down quickly. 

As his caramel sits for a minute, John watches as Molly starts a second attempt. Sherlock is also going again, John sees from the corner of his eye, although he can’t tell what was wrong with his first one. Jim is making two at the same time, presumably so that he can compare and decide on which version he likes best.

John tastes, decides he’s not likely going to do better on a second try, and pours his caramel into the six little pots they are given. He’s just in time, it’s already starting to harden. 

Step two is to make the custard. It says on the recipe to use four eggs, and John wonders briefly at that. If he remembers right he needs to use only the egg yolks for custard. But then why do they not specify that on the recipe? Is it a test? John decides to do what it says on the paper, and adds in whole eggs. Sherlock is separating his. Molly uses whole ones. Jim watches all of them, and then decides on whole ones as well. John isn’t sure whether he’s just following the majority because he doesn’t know, or that he does know but didn’t want to give it away. He thinks it’s probably the second, which means that he picked right. 

The milk needs to be warm enough to thicken the custard, but not too warm otherwise the eggs will scramble. John just holds a finger in his pot while it heats, he’s never used a thermometer so he has no idea what the temperature even should even be, he just feels for warm but not burning, but Sherlock is complaining that he wants his and that he doesn’t see why they can’t use one. 

With one hour and fifteen minutes left to go, none of them has their pots into the oven yet, and they get a shout-out from the production assistant to work faster. Jim mumbles that maybe she should give it a go then if she knows better, just loud enough for everyone to hear. It’s rude, but John agrees with him, at least a little. They’re all trying here. 

The little pots have to be baked standing in a tray of water again like this morning, but besides the oven temperature there are no guidelines on the recipe as to how long they have to be in there, or how to tell when they’re done. 

Sherlock gets his in, then sits in front of his oven with his head in his hands and mumbles about protein structure. John can’t see him, but he can hear him clearly while he’s staring into his own oven. It makes him smile, even though he reminds himself not to get distracted. Not now. Time enough for that tonight. 

John’s puddings look bright yellow and still a bit wobbly when he takes them out, but he reckons that that’s the point. 

They go into the fridge, and there’s not much left but to hope that the caramel has set, that the custard is smooth, and that it all tastes good... 

With the ten-minute warning it’s time to take the puddings out of the fridge and flip them for serving. John is curious to see his, he’s not exactly sure whether he has done them any justice, they might be perfect, they might not. Molly is biting her lip in worry when she turns her first one over and it won’t come out. She taps the back end of the pot, then uses a knife to loosen the edges, but her caramel is stuck in there. 

John turns his first one over onto a plate, and is instantly relieved as it slops out in one piece. The only thing that he’s a bit disappointed by is the colour of the caramel. It’s not as deep as he would have liked it, it’s more golden than brown, and a quick look over at Jim’s counter shows that his caramel is a deep chestnut brown- of course. Molly has finally managed to get one of hers out of its pot, and it too looks nicer than John’s colour wise but the edges are ragged from where she’s had to cut it out.

Sherlock’s though... John turns around to look at how he’s doing, and it’s a disaster. They have separated on turning over. “The protein strands in egg whites,” Sherlock says, looking at him. “I realised once they were in the oven.” He seems quite upset. He’s the only one out of the four of them that hasn’t won star baker yet, John thinks. If this would have been perfect he would have had a very good shot at it with this morning’s results, but now... 

“...and, stop baking!”

They all bring their work up to the table up front. 

John always likes looking at the judges’ faces when they see the row of bakes for the first time. Especially when there are some lacklustre results like today and both Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson have to work hard to keep from laughing. 

They love Jim’s at first sight, of course. “Dark caramel, it tastes lovely and creamy, it’s just perfect, isn’t it?” 

They like John’s, “Great taste, but where is the caramel flavour? Needed more.”

Also Molly’s, “Hm, this person has had trouble getting them out of the tins. Forgot to butter them perhaps? Caramel is nice though.” 

And Sherlock’s, well... Lestrade shakes his head sadly. Sherlock throws him a murderous look. 

So they all pretty much know the results before they’re announced. 

Sherlock in fourth place, then John, Molly, and the clear winner, as so many times before, is Jim. Nobody comments on it or congratulates him but Jim doesn’t need the appreciation, he’s grinning anyway. 

 

\---

 

The army is an obvious choice for John, no matter how much his friends try to talk him out of it. 

They’re right, of course, John’s years in med school haven’t prepared him for what it means to be a doctor in a warzone. He does well on the surface, by then he’s known as an easy guy to work with, likeable, dependable. He keeps them all alive and they return the favour. 

But despite Dad’s and Harry’s good efforts, John’s never seen that much violence before. That amount of real, undiluted suffering. He envies the soldiers who drink themselves into a stupor, the ones who can still cry, the ones who go out in the desert and beat their fists bloody against the rocks. He keeps it well hidden but John wants it, too. Release. 

He’s always needed money and liked a challenge, so it first sends him gambling and when that thrill wears off and he’s broke, hitting on everything that moves. Including, one night, his male C.O. And instead of a fist in the face he gets dragged into a tent, cock out. They jerk each other off with fast movements, kiss messily and the man breaks down under John’s hands and cries and John feels nothing but relief. 

Finally, he can breathe. 

 

\---

 

On the way back to the castle, Sherlock is quiet. Mostly annoyed at himself for not doing better at the technical bake, John thinks. 

Sherlock follows John to his room though, and closes the door behind them. 

Where John remembers last time, Sherlock’s uncertain touch after he told him he wanted to fuck him. John’s been kicking himself for that one all week. Sherlock responded so well to being pushed around a bit, seemed to love it, so he’d thought... Well, wrongly. It doesn’t matter. 

John leans his cane against the wall, reaches up, and puts his hand in the back of Sherlock’s neck. Then pulls him down, slowly. Sherlock is still stuck in his own head mostly, John can tell. Sherlock’s intense, hot, surprisingly kind at times, but also unsure in a certain way. Stiff, withdrawn. So John traces the fingers over Sherlock’s chin, his ear, tangles it in his hair, lets him feel that he’s there. 

“John...” Sherlock moves forward suddenly and catches his lips. 

John kisses him back, gives himself over to whatever Sherlock is looking for with that kiss and it seems to be important, by how he’s holding on. 

As they break apart Sherlock looks at him and there’s still something about him that seems sad, today. A little lost, John thinks. He can deal with the ‘just friends’ however untrue it feels. With Sherlock sleeping around if that’s what he wants. They can make their own rules, John thinks rashly. But he wants him to be happy, at least. 

So John does what they’ve done before. What he’s sure of. He reaches out and slowly starts unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt while looking into his eyes. He presses his lips at every patch of skin revealed, licks and sucks the skin. First Sherlock’s deep cut collar bones. His sternum, with a few little black hairs on it. His nipples. His solar plexus. The skin between his lower ribs. Then his navel, where soft hairs tickle his lips and John gently bites the flesh. 

Sherlock relaxes in response, and pushes his fingers under John’s belt, pulls his shirt and undershirt free and pulls them up. John’s shoulder aches and he can’t lift his arms very high, so he nearly gets tangled up in his sleeves, but Sherlock manages to pull it all over his head, and drops it on the ground. John pulls Sherlock’s shirt off of him too, and drags his hands over Sherlock’s chest. The flat planes of Sherlock’s sides, his ribs, his smooth back. The curve of his arse, still clothed. The lines of his arms. 

And Sherlock lets him, eyes bright now, attentive, then kisses him again, chases his mouth, warm and unhurried. Their chests touch, bellies, Sherlock’s clothed erection rubs hotly against John’s hip as they move in and out of kisses. John’s knees feel weak already. He’s so glad that they’re finally here.

Sherlock’s fingers are close to his mouth, so John opens his lips for them, softly sucks on them while Sherlock instantly leans back against the wall, and looks at him with something like admiration. 

John wants to see that look turn dark. 

So he opens Sherlock’s belt, lowers the zip, and gets on his knees. It’s the end of the day and his leg feels stiff already but he can afford to do this for a couple minutes. He presses kisses to Sherlock’s erection, the fabric of his underpants rough and damp under his lips. Sherlock’s mouth opens in anticipation. John puts his lips to the fabric and sucks, which makes Sherlock gasp softly. 

Sherlock spreads his legs a little. Pushes his hips against the line of John’s cheek. “John...” 

John rubs his face slowly over Sherlock’s crotch. “You want me to suck you?” 

Sherlock nods.

John puts his thumbs to Sherlock’s belly, lifts his underwear over his erection, and pulls it down. Sherlock’s cock springs free. 

John touches Sherlock’s legs, traces them with his fingers. Then uses his mouth for a series of lingering kisses, Sherlock’s knee, then higher, higher. Sherlock twitches. John takes Sherlock’s erection in his hand, and strokes him while he sucks the soft skin of his balls, but Sherlock moves in his hand, pushes himself between John’s fingers, snaps his hips quickly. “John!” He’s already close, John thinks with amazement. He must have been wanting this for a while. 

So John pushes Sherlock back to the door and holds him there with one arm, slows it down a little. Sherlock doesn’t fight, simply groans under his hand, skin hot and clammy. John holds him there, immobile for a couple seconds, to see his cock tense and move of its own accord. God, does Sherlock look beautiful in his desire. 

And then John takes him in his hand and strokes him again, drags his fingertips over the skin, and puts his mouth just over the head, sucks lightly. Sherlock’s eyes flutter open to look at him, he pants, his cock twitches and yes, it takes only a minute or so before he falls apart under John’s hands, comes in spurts in John’s mouth while his head falls back against the door. 

John watches him, keeps his hand softly working between them. And when Sherlock pulls him up, he kisses his slack lips. 

It’s glorious. 

The air is close between them, it smells like sex and Sherlock’s kiss tastes like it, slow, dirty and open-mouthed. John’s hand is sticky and every time he swallows he tastes Sherlock’s bitter come at the back of his throat. His leg is trembling from kneeling, but he’s also half-hard in his trousers. 

“Bed.” John says. 

Sherlock obeys immediately, steps out of his pants, toes his shoes and socks off, and lies down on the bed, naked and still flushed. John lowers his trousers, and sits to take off the rest, then rolls next to Sherlock, kisses him skin to skin, leisurely and warm.

Sherlock moves down after a while, presses his nose to John’s hip, _smells_ him with a small contented sigh. He’s sounding as if he’d been waiting to have this again all afternoon, John thinks. The thought settles hotly in his belly. 

Sherlock suckles John’s balls first too, teasingly, not too hard, opens his mouth to suck them in as much as he can, rolls them around with his tongue. Then moves up to suck the head slightly, lets it bump into his lips. He cranes his chin so that he can take more into his mouth, moves his head up and down. Lets go, and sighs hotly over wet skin. 

John leans up on his elbows a little to watch him. 

Sherlock sees, gives him a bit of a challenging look, takes John’s erection into his mouth, and he keeps going all the way until his nose bumps John’s belly, lips stretched open wide. And then looks up at him again, eyes glittering with glee, and _swallows_. John feels a shudder roll over his entire body. “Oh Jesus!” Damn, he’s good at this. 

Sherlock chuckles, slowly moves away, then in again, then faster, and by the fifth time he does it John falls back on the bed because he is seeing stars. He wants this to last, he does, but then Sherlock adds a little suck in between taking him so deep and John just shudders into an orgasm. It’s amazing. 

He opens his eyes shortly after when he feels Sherlock touching him, slowly running a finger over the wet length of his now shrinking erection and then on to his belly. 

“Hey.” John says, and he knows he sounds a little rough, a little wistful. He’s still high on the rush of coming. “Come here.”

Sherlock comes to lie next to him and settles himself on top of him, head on John’s chest.

 

\---

 

John still prefers women, of course. 

Cute, brown-eyed ladies. War widows with sadness in their touch. Locals from a war-torn country wanting something different. Young, middle aged, good-looking or not, John makes them all smile, holds them, gives them what they like and then leaves the next morning. It earns him a reputation again, Three Continents Watson. But it doesn’t bother him. 

And as for the fine young soldiers with a wife at home, John puts his hands on them, too, if he’s wanted. To heal or to arouse, there isn’t much of a difference at times. He hears their cries of ecstasy or despair, and holds their words and wounds and regrets and it gives him more than he ever thought it would.

 

\---

 

After a while, John’s stomach starts grumbling. 

He doesn’t want to get up, but after the second time it happens Sherlock looks up at him, eyes young and a little sleepy, and says, “John, you’re hungry.” Kisses his neck, and says, “You have to eat.” 

So they get dressed and join the others at their table for dinner. 

They’ve missed the last two dinners, but as always the food is outstanding, and so is the company. Lestrade’s there, who is much more laid-back when he’s not judging and always up for a laugh. Mrs. Hudson, who Sherlock really seems to be closer to than John thought at first, they pretend not to know each other that well when they’re on camera but Sherlock always seems at ease around her, treats her fondly, like a mother or a favourite aunt. Molly, who is really much funnier and more intelligent than they give her credit for, John thinks. And well, Jim. 

Sherlock immediately settles his hand on John’s upper leg under the table when he catches Jim looking. John wonders if it’s for his own benefit or Sherlock’s, but he likes it anyway. He feels the warmth of it radiate through his entire thigh.

As the evening goes on, Jim seems to get a bigger and bigger kick out of antagonising Sherlock. But after the third glass of wine or so, hearing them shoot recipes and arcane details about baking history at each other like some type of aggressive verbal ping pong becomes highly entertaining. Especially when they all get in on it and have a debate about how to make a perfect crumble finish, and what constitutes the best rising agent. 

The six of them stay there talking long after dinner is cleared, laughing, theorising about the next challenges while Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson pretend not to know anything about them. 

By the end, John takes Sherlock’s hand, presses their slightly sweaty palms together, and rests them on his leg. Sherlock looks at him and smiles a small smile. 

When they all finally leave for bed, Sherlock follows John to his room, and no one bats an eye. Mrs. Hudson even smiles at them and says, “Good night, boys.”

It’s funny how they all seem to be entirely convinced that they’re in love, John thinks, a little bitterly. 

Then he gets to turn off the light, and bury them both under the covers. Sherlock half crawls over John again, possessively hooks his chin over John’s shoulder, his arm over John’s belly. 

And John, a little drunk, right before he falls asleep feeling nothing but the warm weight of Sherlock’s body, allows himself the thought that maybe he is. In love. 

 

\---

 

John’s C.O. leaves after ten months of secretive sex, and by then John has learnt how to read those signs as well. How to let men know that he wants it, furtive encounters behind tents, in bathroom stalls, but more than that, too. Laughter. Friendship. 

The next is a fellow doctor, too young. John stitches him up after only a couple weeks, visits him once when he’s on leave in London, sees his pale face and cloudy eyes and then never goes back again. 

It’s easier. 

 

\---

 

The Showstopper Challenge

Sherlock is gone by the time that John wakes up, nothing but a cold spot in the bed, but he’s used to that by now. He knows that Sherlock likes to prepare on his own, obsess over his recipes, whatever it is he does. John’s leg is hurting from yesterday, his head feels heavy from the wine at dinner, but he’s in a good mood anyway. It’s hard not to be, after sleeping with Sherlock, after that lovely evening, after baking all day and getting to wake up to do it again. 

Molly and Lestrade are the only ones at breakfast and John talks to them until they have to go to the baking tent. He asks Molly about Henry, but she just shakes her head. “Oh, he’s such a nice guy, and we’re friends, but he’s not really what I want, you know?” 

John doesn’t ask her what she does want, because her eyes turn conspiratorial while Lestrade pretends not to listen in, “You’re so lucky with Sherlock...” 

“Yes,” John spots him through the window, a distant spot moving between the trees moving towards the Bake Off marquee. The weather is more overcast today, and he’s being outlined by heavy grey clouds. Molly doesn’t know what they do and don’t have. Neither does John, exactly. “I am.” She smiles. 

Today feels important, the fifth showstopper, and everyone is prepared, both mentally and practically. Where most people knew their recipes by heart in the beginning, now everyone has sheets and sheets of notes, most heavily edited. Flavour combinations, baking time, solutions for several possible problems... at this point, preparation is the key. None of them would have gotten this far if they didn’t think ahead, and John watches Jim and Molly’s preparations while he sets up his own things. Sherlock is holding an atmospheric pressure barometer for some bizarre reason. John ties his apron. He feels ready. 

“Good morning bakers, and welcome to day two of puddings and desserts! Today we are asking you to create a meringue dessert, composed of at least four layers, and you have three and a half hours to do it in.” 

Meringue. John didn’t know it very well before the Bake Off but he enjoys working with it now.

“Ready, set... bake!”

John turns the oven on, and gets going. He’s making a hazelnut tiramisu layered meringue with layers of chocolate sponge and mascarpone cream. Experiments in the last couple weeks have helped him figure out that if he wants the meringue to be crispy it has to dry out in the oven for at least an hour, as well as cool for at least an hour, which gives him about half an hour to make it in, and an hour to assemble and decorate at the end. 

So he starts by making the meringue itself, mixing egg whites and sugar until it stiffens. Sherlock is adding almonds into his, and Molly has a pile of strawberries and pistachios ready to mix into hers. Jim is boiling his sugar to make Italian meringue and preparing a chocolate ganache at the same time, stirring a pot per hand and whistling too. John decides to stop looking at him. He makes it look like a breeze. 

John gets his meringue finished quickly; all the practise has really helped him on this, and it goes into the oven. He strikes it off his list, and starts on his mascarpone mix. John thinks of Sherlock’s sticky lemon puddings, and his grin while he was making them yesterday. He adds in two extra spoonfuls of Amaretto.

After John’s mascarpone is in the fridge so it can cool down, it’s on to the mixture for the chocolate sponge, which is fairly easy really, just butter, caster sugar, flour, cocoa powder and eggs. He pours that into its tin, sets it ready for later and sits down for a minute to chop his hazelnuts. A little more than two hours left. He’s learnt that it helps if he’s not on his feet for the entire challenge, to sit or lean on things whenever possible, so he stretches his leg out in front of him while he cuts. 

Mrs. Hudson winks at him. John smiles back at her, then pushes his chair a bit further back so that he can look in the oven. Almost done. He gets up again and trades his meringue for the chocolate sponge, the meringue can sit on his counter to cool and stiffen, and then it’s back to chopping, and after that, making whipped cream. 

Molly is running around looking for a bowl, Sherlock is using a French press to make coffee and grinding chestnuts with that antique grinder he loves, Jim is carefully cutting his cherries and figs. There’s not much talking again today either, although Molly smiles at John, then wipes away an errant strand of hair that’s come loose from her ponytail while she gets her rosewater. 

It suddenly starts raining, little droplets audibly hitting the plastic sides of the marquee. Sherlock looks up at the tent sail and frowns. Jim is whistling, stopping and restarting as he focuses on what he’s doing. Molly mumbles under her breath at times, pieces of her recipe mostly. The smells of coffee and baking drifting through the tent, the sound of rain... If it wasn’t a competition, it would almost be homey, John thinks. 

When his chocolate sponge is finished it comes out to cool as well, and then, with fifty-seven minutes left on the clock, John is ready to start putting it all together. Like any layered dessert it’s important that all the layers are even, and with the meringue as a centre point that isn’t going to be easy. 

John takes his largest knife, and carves even layers of meringue and sponge. He puts one layer of meringue at the bottom (the least attractive one, always keep the best for on top), then a sponge, then spreads mascarpone cream on it, although not too much so that it runs out of the cake once the weight of the next layer is on top of it. Then some dark, unsweetened cacao powder for the taste and because it will create a small barrier between the mascarpone and the meringue so that it won’t absorb the moisture straight away. Another layer of meringue, sponge, mascarpone, cacao powder, and then the final layer. 

It looks level so far. Hopefully it will stay that way, because he’s made some at home that started sagging once the moisture of the mascarpone weakened the meringue. John spreads some ground hazelnuts and chocolate flakes over it, evens out the edges, pipes some whipped cream on top, and then puts it back into the fridge for the remaining minutes. 

Molly is decorating the edges of her cake with pink fondant flowers. Sherlock is still constructing, using his builder’s level to make sure it is perfectly even. Jim is using a brush to spread his ganache. It looks incredibly shiny. 

John waits until the last two minutes to take his cake out, still looking level, great, and then quickly spreads some more cacao powder on top of the hazelnuts on top and over the sides. 

Jim is finished. Molly is adding a last flower. Sherlock is placing his last layer of meringue on top, and then...

“Three, two, one, done, stop touching your cakes!” 

 

\---

 

While John is in Afghanistan, Harry, after years of second-rate jobs and short-lived, destructive relationships, manages to fall in love. Her name is Clara and it’s the one and only time that John has ever seen Harry happy. It’s a shockingly average romance, they move in together with furniture from Ikea and potted plants, and adopt a dog from a local shelter. They get married in white. John watches them through Skype and it’s so bizarre to see Harry like this. Grown up, put together, still herself but softer, gentler in her love. 

Dad isn’t invited to the wedding and has the good grace to die from acute liver failure about a year later. John feels nothing but a vague sense of relief when he hears. Harry calls him and proposes a toast. 

It lasts two years until the ennui of living gets to her again and there’s a slow return to drinking. John can only stand Harry because she’s always been exactly like this: a force of nature. She’s gruellingly sad, glowingly hateful, she’s dark and loud and predictably fails every promise she ever makes. John has grown up not expecting any different, but Clara does. They divorce a couple months later and Harry calls him, drunk and weeping. John says nothing. 

 

\---

 

Molly is up first for judging today, and her strawberry, pistachio and rose meringue looks very festive. A bit too much pink for John’s taste, but Molly seems proud. It crunches a little as Lestrade slices through it. “Well, you’ve got your layers, but when I initially look at it, it doesn’t work for me. There’s just too much going on there.” 

Mrs. Hudson agrees. “You over decorated, Molly.” She nods dutifully. John understands why she did it, she got praised so much for it before, but this week they really wanted to be able to see the structure of the cake apparently. 

“The meringue’s already going soggy because of the moisture in the strawberries, and the rose flavour is overpowering to me.” Molly nods again. Not too good, then. 

Sherlock is next, and John turns around to watch him. 

They all saw that he was working until the last second, but his dacquoise does look mostly finished. There are chestnuts in it, and traditional chocolate and coffee flavours. “It’s tricky to make, isn’t it?” Lestrade says. “Technically difficult. A dacquoise isn’t a classic meringue. But it does look good.”

John watches tensely as they taste. If Sherlock does badly again, they might send him home after yesterday’s technical. 

Mrs. Hudson says, “I’m a little sad there is so little crispness in the meringue, but interesting fillings.” 

Lestrade frowns. “It just feels a little bit stodgy.” Sherlock looks as if he can barely hold back from arguing, but he does. 

Then they’re at John’s counter. His hazelnut tiramisu layered meringue is about as good as he has ever done it, John thinks. It looks exactly as his best effort did at home, only better lit. 

Lestrade tastes, frowns, and says “I don’t like it.” 

John feels that like a punch in the gut. What? 

“And I’ll tell you why, the meringue itself is excellent, it’s just that the cacao powder has made it too bitter.” 

Mrs Hudson shakes her head, “You know what, I disagree with you. I’ve got a very sweet tooth and I think it’s plenty sweet enough for me. And a nice Amaretto flavour in your tiramisu as well.” 

Thank god for Mrs. Hudson. John thanks them both and they move on. 

Jim has his fig and chocolate layered meringue with chocolate ganache on the edge of his counter. It’s still shining as if there’s no tomorrow. “So, you’ve tried to redeem figs?” Lestrade jokes, but Jim’s nervous, John can see. 

They take their time tasting, chewing, it’s Lestrade who speaks first and he only needs one word, “Exquisite.” Jim grins broadly, and is about to speak, when the cameraman’s phone rings.

He says, quietly, “Sorry!” and shuts it off. 

Mrs. Hudson says, “Really nice. It’s quite delicate, which surprises me, and a great chocolate flavour.” 

Then the production’s assistant phone goes. She silently curses, and turns it off. 

Then Mrs. Hudson’s, and she reaches into her pocket, saying “Oh, I could have sworn I put it on silent! Those little buttons, you know.”

None of the contestants are allowed to have a phone on them while baking, for obvious reasons, they’re all collected up front before every challenge and handed back after, but suddenly everyone else in the room is buzzing, pinging or ringing and frantically grabbing their mobiles. 

John thinks it’s rather funny, and he looks back at Sherlock, but Sherlock’s face has gone pale. He looks worried as he quickly walks up to Mrs. Hudson, rudely grabs the phone from her hand and says, “Yes, it’s me.” 

Sherlock listens and everyone else’s phones die down one by one. Sherlock’s face looks blank, but when he lowers the phone he says to Mrs. Hudson. “I need to go. Mycroft is in the hospital.” 

“Oh, oh dear.” Mrs. Hudson puts her hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Did they say what happened?” 

“No.” 

John immediately goes to Sherlock, but once he’s close he can tell that a hug or compassion is not what he wants right now. Sherlock’s using Mrs. Hudson’s phone to call a taxi, every muscle in his body taunt, he looks as if he is preparing to run out of there of necessary. 

John isn’t sure whether they’re going to let him go, since they’re not done with filming yet. But after a moment of confusion, Molly asking, “Who?”, everyone talking through each other, it’s Lestrade who speaks up, his voice loud and authoritative. “Okay, Mrs. Hudson and myself will deliberate quickly. Everyone stay here, we’ll film the ending, it’ll take ten minutes tops and then you’re all free to go, all right?” 

Lestrade looks Sherlock in the eye and says, “Ten minutes, Sherlock, I promise you,” before conferring in the corner of the tent with Mrs. Hudson. John thinks that Sherlock might still run out, but he doesn’t. 

John stays close, but doesn’t touch him. Mycroft in the hospital... He wonders what might have happened. John still doesn’t know what Mycroft does exactly that makes him so dangerous, Sherlock has been vague about him every time he has come up. But if he’s really in the habit of kidnapping people, it would make sense that one day somebody might be not quite so cooperative as he was. 

Sherlock walks over to the chairs they started using for judging last week, and drops down into one, his one leg bouncing up and down in a nervous pattern. There’s nothing that John will be able to say right now that’ll make him worry any less, John’s been around enough grief to know that. Jim is staring at Sherlock, but Molly is looking at him with questions in her eyes, so John walks over to her instead. “His brother?” Molly whispers, anxiously looking at Sherlock. 

John says, “Yeah.” But nothing more. 

Then looks at Sherlock’s counter and the dacquoise neatly presented on top of it. He remembers seeing Sherlock slicing off pieces of his bakes in the past two weeks. He’d thought it was sweet, at the time. A rare touch of care from Sherlock, which probably means that it’s important. 

John looks at Sherlock but he’s looking at his own phone now, head down. Should he? John hesitates for a moment, but then takes the knife and slices off a piece of Sherlock’s dacquoise, careful to get a nice piece with straight edges. He puts it onto the plate with metal cover just like he has seen Sherlock do before. 

John eyes his own meringue as well. Well, why not. Mycroft must have a fondness for baked goods for Sherlock to send him some, and John knows all too well how Sherlock likes to push food, if he’s in any state to eat he’ll probably like some variety. John slices off a piece of his own bake, puts it next to Sherlock’s, closes he container again, and then goes to sit down. Sherlock hasn’t noticed what he’s done, he’s still moving his leg, nervously tapping his fingers. 

“Do you want me to come?” John asks carefully, conscious of the fact that he might not be wanted at all. 

“What?” Sherlock looks at him as if he has no idea what John’s talking about.

“Do you want me to come to the hospital with you?” 

Sherlock frowns. “Why?”

For emotional support, John thinks. Because I care about you, because I’m your friend, at the very least. What he says is, “I’m a doctor. I might be able to help, run interference, get him transferred if necessary.” 

Sherlock looks at him, his eyes scanning John, looking for a motive, John thinks. Eventually he nods. “If you want to.” 

The judges return and the cameras start up again straight away. It’s like a well-oiled machine when they want it to be, and Lestrade wasn’t lying, everyone is hurrying this along as much as possible for Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson is looking concerned, but she says nothing, instead focuses on what she has to do. John feels a rush of gratitude for all of them. 

“Well done, bakers.” Lestrade’s voice is even, and he smiles into the camera. “And now for the best part of the day... Our star baker is ingenious, inventive, original.” 

John briefly looks at Sherlock. If they give it to him today there is no way that he will respond appropriately, he looks like he isn’t even listening. “For the second time, Jim!” 

Jim gets up, and thanks everyone, effectively pulling the cameras away from Sherlock. John can’t tell whether he’s doing that because he loves to be in the limelight or because he is trying to be helpful, but his speech is as annoying as ever. 

“And now for the person who is leaving us...” Mrs. Hudson lets a silence fall.

John feels a sudden spike of worry. They’re not going to send Sherlock home like this, surely? Molly then, for her last bake? Or himself? It feels like they’ve all done about equally well. He meets Molly’s eyes. She seems about ready to cry. 

“No one!” Mrs. Hudson smiles. “We have decided that since two people left last week, all of you can stay to compete for another week.” 

There’s a ripple of relief going through the group, Sherlock being the only exception, but John can see a bit of tension leave his shoulders still. So he had been paying attention. It’s Jim again who goes up to the judges, talks in front of the cameras, and Sherlock rises quickly, and with a nod to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, grabs his coat and walks out. 

John has to hurry to take the metal container in one hand, his cane in the other, accept his own phone from a production assistant and catch up with Sherlock. He hears Molly’s, “Hope he’s okay!” but doesn’t look back. It’s still raining, and Sherlock is walking with fast strides. He does slow down a bit as he hears John coming up behind him. 

The taxi is already waiting when they get to the parking lot, and Sherlock gives him the address. John is surprised to hear that it’s close by. He had some idea of Mycroft working in London, although he was here that week he... saw him. John refuses to think of it as kidnapping, although it was. It seems like so long ago already. 

John suddenly questions his decision to come along, does he really want to see Mycroft? But one look at Sherlock’s drawn face tells him it’s probably good that he’s here. 

Sherlock catches him looking. “You brought him meringue.” His voice sounds unsure.

John feels a little silly. “I’ve seen you send him pieces, so I thought he might like it?” 

“Yes....” Sherlock sounds as if he wants to say more, but then doesn’t, instead stares out of the window, probably urging the car to go faster, John thinks. 

 

\---

 

John lives and lives while others die. 

While blood flows over his hands and arms, while screams hit his ears, while last stuttering breaths and wishes and tears get stuck in his memories, he keeps on breathing. To keep on going that way, to keep on running in front of bullets and fists and the heat of bombs, John has to believe himself capable of dying every single day. He likes to think that it will have been worth it when it happens. 

But when he gets shot himself, he is blindingly angry because he’s not done, goddammit. He fights and kicks and shits his pants, screams “No! Fuck!” and “God, let me live” before he passes out from the blood loss.

It’s not a relief to wake up. 

 

\---

 

Once they pull up at the hospital Sherlock doesn’t jump out of the taxi the way John thought he would. He holds on to the handle, then seems to breathe for a moment before stepping out. 

John feels for him. 

It’s a large hospital, and the walk towards the front desk is tense, John still carrying the tray as some bizarre silent offering for a man that he’s only met once. The elderly woman behind the front desk is efficient, luckily; John isn’t sure how much further politeness Sherlock has in him, and points them in the right direction. It’s not intensive care, just a private room, which is a good sign. 

Sherlock walks up the stairs quickly, John trailing behind, and doesn’t knock at the door when he reaches the right one, just walks up and throws it open. 

John is instantly relieved to see Mycroft lying half-upright in bed, his head propped up with pillows. He’s conscious, and was just talking to the woman to his side. John recognises her as his what, assistant? Body guard? from before. It can’t be that serious. Sherlock doesn’t seem to be equally reassured though, as he walks up right to Mycroft’s bed and just freezes there. 

The woman looks between the two of them and then wisely leaves the room. 

John closes the door behind her. There’s a giant white bandage on the back of Mycroft’s head. He does look awful, John thinks, pale, dark circles under his eyes, sunken cheeks, but he’s perfectly lucid. 

“Your head...” Sherlock whispers. The way he says it makes it sound as if it’s something infinitely precious. John looks at Sherlock in surprise. He’s never heard him sound like that about anything. 

Mycroft sighs. “Why are you here?”

“You’re not the only one who has spies.” Sherlock is still looking at the white bandage, moving his hands as if he wants to run them over the shape of Mycroft’s head, his face, his wound, but doesn’t quite dare to.

John puts the tray down on a table. Neither of them seem to notice that he’s even in the room. 

“You didn’t need to come, Sherlock, I’m fine.” Mycroft only has eyes for Sherlock as well, grateful to see him despite his words, John thinks. There’s a banana bag running on his IV, as well as some painkillers and antibiotics. 

John takes the chart from the edge of the bed. Head wound, deep but nothing too serious. But the blood counts... John looks back at Mycroft. He’s only seen that type of chart a couple times. Hunger strikes. God, he’s just brought dessert to someone who hasn’t been eating for weeks. 

Mycroft acknowledges him then. “John.” He sounds strict. He might not want him to tell Sherlock what’s on the chart, John thinks, although surely Sherlock must be able to see for himself. 

“John’s brought you meringue.” Sherlock says, as if it’s a clue in some game. The corners of Mycroft’s mouth constrict. “A piece from either of us. One chestnut, chocolate and coffee dacquoise, one hazelnut tiramisu. ” Sherlock’s still looking at Mycroft as if he can’t tear his gaze away. 

Mycroft looks at John again, “That was thoughtful, thank you.” And then back at Sherlock, uneasy. John can tell he’s not exactly wanted here, that he’s making Mycroft uncomfortable, so he takes a step back. He can wait in the hallway, let them talk. 

Sherlock leans over Mycroft, does what he’s been obviously wanting to do from the moment he came in and touches Mycroft’s cheek, then strokes it, surprisingly gently. Mycroft closes his eyes, revels in it for a second. John intends to leave, but he can’t look away. Sherlock looks so stricken, so... 

When Sherlock leans in, John isn’t surprised by it, he was telegraphing it in his movements. When he kisses Mycroft he does so tenderly, unhurried, hand holding his cheek, lips moving slowly. John sees, but it doesn’t shock him, it seems normal, somehow. It does until Mycroft pulls away from the kiss abruptly, loudly says, “Sherlock!” and his eyes find John, so full of pain, and shame. 

John blinks then. Oh. _Oh._

He leaves the room. 

 

\---

 

John lies in that hospital bed for weeks. He has to lean on people to pee, he has to beg for morphine. He becomes a shadow of a man, an echo. He knows that he’ll never be in a warzone or particularly helpful again and it’s the hardest truth he’s ever lived with. His whole self is doctor and solider, fight and heal. And now he can’t do either. 

John’s too practical to kill himself. But they assign him a therapist anyway. 

 

\---

 

John walks steadily through the depressing hallway, the sharp clang of his cane echoing off the walls. He takes the stairs down again, barely feeling the pain at every step, another hallway and then he’s through the hissing doors, outside. He stops right there because it’s pouring now, the rain immediately drenches his hair, rolls over his eyes and his lips, colours dark stripes on his shirt. 

Mycroft. John remembers thinking of him as the jealous husband, when he first met him. Sherlock asking about being faithful earlier, was this what he meant? Really? His _brother_? 

John’s chest hurts. He forces himself to take a deep breath. Maybe it simply was Sherlock being relieved at Mycroft being alive, maybe... John doesn’t quite believe that himself. Sherlock could sell that to him, but Mycroft...

John’s aware that there’s no sense in standing in the rain so he turns around and walks back inside, past the receptionist again who is looking at him strangely by now, and to the hallway. He doesn’t think it’ll be long, and he’s right, Sherlock comes around the corner, coat billowing behind him, and yells “John!”

John simply leans against the wall and waits. He’s not going anywhere. 

“John.” Sherlock says again, and then seems to have run out of anything to say. He seems concerned, but not particularly ashamed, nothing as mortified as Mycroft looked. 

John thinks he’ll tell him the truth. He’s not sure he wants to know. “So, you and Mycroft.” 

“Yes.” Sherlock says quickly. He’s staring at John intently. 

“He’s why you asked about...” John hesitates. Sherlock nods sharply. “And he’s your brother?” Another nod. “Your real brother?” 

Sherlock sighs. “Would that make a difference?” 

John thinks about it. “It probably would, yes.” 

“He is. I did the DNA testing myself when I was thirteen.” 

John covers his eyes with his hand and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Right.” He tries to think of himself and Harry. His mind immediately bounces off the idea, categorises it as disgusting. “And you’re what, in love?”

Sherlock frowns. 

“I know, you don’t do love.” John can’t help but sound bitter. “What then, sex? You like to sleep with your brother because it feels nice?” 

Sherlock seems unsure as to what he should answer. 

John doesn’t want to even imagine it, the idea seems so bizarre. He could maybe see a drunken stumble, curiosity, for some people. If there’s one thing Sherlock is it’s curious, pushing the boundaries. “How does that even happen?”

“We were young. Doesn’t matter.” Sherlock waves his hand.

John frowns. How young? “He’s what, ten years older than you?”

“Seven.” Sherlock doesn’t seem to get the point.

John is starting to feel nauseous. “Sherlock, if you were younger than eighteen then that’s abuse, you know that, right?” He can see it, suddenly, Sherlock, his insistence that he’s focused only on his work, that caring isn’t an advantage, the hesitancy in his touch sometimes. The way he froze at the mention of fucking him, oh no. Fuck. 

“No.” Sherlock sounds firm. “John, it wasn’t. I wanted it, I have... I wanted him.” He takes a breath and, visibly annoyed at having to say it. “Loved him.” 

John suddenly realises that this whole thing wasn’t an accident at all, Sherlock kissing Mycroft just now. He wanted him to see. He probably wanted to tell him yesterday as well. “And now?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock looks at him, anxiously searching for a reaction. 

John breathes. His chest still feels tight. Goddammit, this is fucked up. 

“John, it’s okay.”

John nearly laughs. “No, it’s not okay!” God, does he really expect people to get over this in ten minutes? Is he supposed to just accept this and carry on? He thinks of Mycroft, in that white bed up there, looking horrified at John finding out. What does he even think about this? 

Plus, the chart, his blood levels. He must have had an arrhythmia from the electrolyte imbalance, fallen down and hit his head... He must have been starving himself for a long time to get to those levels. He’s obviously nowhere near okay either. 

“He’s anorexic?” John asks, “Mycroft?” and it feels easier, to focus on someone else for a minute. Did Sherlock really allow him to take food to someone with a serious eating disorder? 

“No,” Sherlock says, sounding surprised at the change in topic. “He likes to eat. Loves it.” 

“Well, he hasn’t been eating much for a while, weeks I’d say, months, maybe years.” John thinks of Sherlock getting that strange phone call, him saying that he had spies. “You knew that, otherwise you wouldn’t have had him watched?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock admits. “But he’ll eat your meringue, John. I’ll make sure.” He sounds oddly naive talking about Mycroft. John wonders why he’s never noticed before. John thinks of Sherlock sitting on Mycroft’s bed, feeding him. Ugh. 

Be reasonable, he reminds himself. “Only if he wants to. You shouldn’t push him.”

“He will.” Sherlock sounds sure. 

Right. “Okay, maybe you should get back up there then.” John feels exhausted all of a sudden. 

“John...” Sherlock protests again. 

John wonders what on earth more he’s hoping to get as a reaction. “I’m going home.” He can’t wait to be back in his own flat, back to something approaching normal instead of this insane roller coaster. 

“You can stay.” It’s genuine, John thinks. 

“Sherlock, I need some time to think about this.” 

“What is there to think about?” 

John feels like clubbing him over the head with a hammer. And then holding him afterwards, probably. God, he needs some space. “I’ll see you next week.” And he walks out. 

He hears Sherlock’s “John!” but he’s not coming after him. 

He takes a taxi to the train station. 

 

\---

 

John’s pragmatic, he keeps on living because it’s the obvious thing to do. 

Occasionally he fingers his gun, holds it to his head and imagines the trajectory of the bullet. A little more to the left and he dies. Lower and he’s paralysed. Higher and it’s brain damage. Not because he want to die, exactly. It just feels good to have options. 

He doesn’t like living with Harry, but it’s no worse than it used to be. She splits a bottle with him, sometimes. Tells him life can’t exactly get more fucked up that it already is, so there must be something to look forward to. The Watson family motto. 

Then baking, his blog. It’s sly and then grand, living with a before and an after. John’s gathering pieces of himself, and he thinks he might be whole again at one point. Soon. 

 

\---

 

John’s thoughts are spinning the whole way home. He left all of his supplies in the Bake Off tent, but it’s too late to go back now. 

He’s always thought of himself as open-minded. A ‘live and let live’ kind of guy. But this isn’t merely a little unconventional. He thinks about it from every possible angle. Is it really worse, that Sherlock sleeps with his brother over some random man? His mind screams yes. Should he just leave them to it, wish them the best, stop seeing Sherlock? 

Because now that John knows, he can’t ignore it. Half of him curses Sherlock for telling him in the first place, forcing him to react to it, and the other half feels, what, honoured for being trusted with what is no doubt a well-kept secret? A little pleased that Sherlock thought it was so important for them to talk about this, for him to know?

John breaks his head over it all through the night and is still awake, mind racing, when he gets a text at two in the morning. 

It reads: _I have been informed that you still do not have my brother’s number. It is attached to this message. I apologise for all inconvenience. M.H._

Inconvenience. John breathes a pained laugh. That’s one way to put it. 

But he looks at the number, and then, before he’s really thought it through, dials it. 

Sherlock answers on the second ring.

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Patisserie (Mycroft)

  


 

 

Mycroft has lived with the threat of this moment for over twenty years. 

The day that Sherlock tells. The day that he opens up their secrets and spills them for the world to see. 

Some days he wished for it, for the retribution it might bring. Sherlock with a tear stained face, telling some therapist the root of all his problems. Sherlock using it as blackmail. Sherlock overdosing and leaving a note. Mycroft considered a dozen different scenarios, each worse than the next. 

But he never imagined it like this. 

A quiet kiss in a hospital room, and John’s calm, dependable face slowly turning to confusion. 

Mycroft thinks up a dozen different lies while Sherlock storms out after John. He’s on potent drugs, Sherlock is upset, there’s a story to be made here. John would believe it too, Mycroft thinks, because he’d want to. 

But it’s all useless, as it’s Sherlock’s truth that matters now. Sherlock is offering himself in abandon to John, misguided love and perversions included, and Mycroft is a giant, terrible part of that. He gets that, he does. But John won’t. 

And Sherlock should know better, they’ve been distant (‘good’, Mycroft’s mind supplies, ‘safe’) for so long, why would he do this again, why would he tempt him, why... Why would he want to, now that he has John. 

Mycroft remembers his own words only too well. ‘Don’t offer this to me.’ They echo inside his head all week, get stuck in his throat. He doesn’t eat again after the gingerbread, and hadn’t been eating much before it either. He forgets to drink, welcomes the cold trembling, the light-headedness, the gnawing pain of hunger that feels so much like punishment, because he doesn’t know another solution to what he wants. There isn’t one. 

Mycroft wakes up in the hospital with an impressive headache and Anthea’s face hovering over him; it’s not the first time. What’s different is that Sherlock comes when he didn’t think to see him again for weeks. Sherlock swoops in, so alive, so vibrant, so perfectly here and yes, Mycroft wants to kiss him. He wants to feel him. The dark dirty secret is that he still wants every bit of his brother’s skin no matter how much he has to suffer for it. 

So he doesn’t care, about John. For a moment he just accepts it and it’s beautiful, oh, it always is between them. Mycroft can be cruel in his happiness, too. He’s considered it in these past few weeks just like he’s considered everything else: eliminating John from the equation. He won’t, it will always be Sherlock’s pleasure that matters first, but he could. Easily.

Or he could offer John considerable sums of money, a job, influence, everything he’s ever wanted to make him stay. It might work. Sherlock won’t share either of them but he’ll share himself, Mycroft suspects. It’s a terrifying thought. 

He promises Sherlock he’ll eat their meringue. 

Sherlock who’s distracted, who stares out the window as if John might return at any moment, who touches his phone in his pocket as if John might call. Sherlock who paces the room, who talks about the Bake Off and then pauses, unsure of what to say. Sherlock who actually listens when Mycroft tells him to sit down, and slouches next to his hospital bed lost in thought. 

The medication fades the pounding of Mycroft’s head into something bearable, makes him feel slow and secure. When it gets mostly dark in the room he dozes, only to wake in shock when Sherlock takes his hand and interlaces their fingers, his eyes sad and downcast. He tells Sherlock to go home. He doesn’t. Eventually Mycroft closes his eyes, Sherlock’s touch and the image of their hands held together fading into his dreams. 

Mycroft wakes again in the middle of the night when Sherlock kisses him, softly licks his lips in a goodbye that he feels smouldering in his chest long after he’s gone. 

He does the best thing he can think of. He sends John Sherlock’s number. 

Then checks himself out against medical advice a couple hours later to go back to London. There’s work to be done, always. Mycroft’s learnt that some of it can be done from a hospital bed, but most of it requires him on his feet. He needs to appear to be in control in order to be so. 

The work has piled up in the last week and he gets buried in conflicts and muddy politics. He checks the phone records often though, sees hours and hours of phone calls made from John’s mobile to Sherlock’s or the other way around. He looks at the feeds at night, sees Sherlock bake with speaker phone on, his hands wildly gesticulating as he talks, spreading clouds of flour around the kitchen. He sees Sherlock lying down on the sofa, ear pressed to the phone and softly mumbling. He sees Sherlock laugh with some shared joke and it’s... good. 

So he eats, first little things, a slice of banana, a couple spoonfuls of yoghurt. He has to force it down and it sits heavily on his stomach but it’s going well, Mycroft reminds himself constantly. Sherlock is happy and healthy. It’s fine. His head stops aching around Wednesday and he’d forgotten that it wasn’t normal, the fog and nausea of a concussion. 

In order to finish, he works through the night and leaves for Somerset on Saturday morning. There’s no way he can stay away now. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft touches a woman for the first time on his twenty-second birthday. 

He believes in doing things right, so he hires a professional, and she is, as he hoped, very proficient. He asks her for practical advice, to teach him how to please her and she does so kindly, guides his hand over her breasts, over her curves and inside of her. Mycroft does everything she says, then thanks her after. He doesn’t feel much when he comes inside her, just as he doesn’t feel much when he tries the same thing with a man a week later. 

When it’s not Sherlock, he feels as if he is made out of mist. His mind is there, yes, his words, but not his rotund armour of a body. 

He doesn’t know yet that that’s going to be the thing that makes him. 

 

\---

 

The Signature Bake

Mycroft settles into his hotel suite sofa. It feels good to be back with the screens in front of him, to see people chatting and buzzing inside the tent, Sherlock fiddling with his heaps of equipment, John in a good mood and laughing. 

Mycroft knows that he has been acting rash, coming out to Somerset five weeks in a row. Especially because there is nothing he can do for Sherlock here that he can’t from his office in London. People will have heard about it, rumours will have spread, he’s very much aware of how it must look. But no one, not even Sherlock himself, has asked him why. Mycroft wonders if he understands. If he wants him here. 

“Good morning bakers, and welcome to week six! We’re asking you to make twelve mille-feuilles today.”

Oh. He used to love them.

“Each slice should contain three layers of pastry and two of filling. You can fill them with a flavouring of your choice and decorate in any manner you see fit. You’ve got two and half hours. On your marks, set, bake!” 

Sherlock looks confident. Mycroft wonders how many mille-feuilles he has made in his life. Thousands? And how many of those did he eat himself?

This really should be Sherlock’s week, patisserie. It’s always been his favourite type of baking. He’s making flaky pastry, something that takes considerable skill but he can probably do in his sleep. Jim, John and Molly have chosen to do rough puff pastry with small chunks of butter. Easier, but less delicate. 

Mycroft has thought about contacting Lestrade to ensure that Sherlock at least win once, but then reconsidered after seeing Sherlock’s footage from last week. Sherlock is fighting for his place, and the struggle is making him better. So is John.

John is the first one to roll out his dough, shoulders bent, absorbed in his task. 

Sherlock has opened up in these last few weeks, has wildly, unpredictably connected with John on a level that Mycroft has never seen him do before. Mycroft is already holding his breath for when John decides he can’t handle it, but... He looks at John’s back again, his unassuming manner, his simple technique. He has so far. Against all odds, John knows, and he’s still here. Loving Sherlock. 

Mycroft doesn’t believe in miracles, but this must be close to one. He’s afraid to get near it, lest he breaks their equilibrium, destroys it all, but at the same time his mind keeps circling around it, keeps prodding at the idea like a bruise that won’t fade. Sherlock kissing him, so softly. John’s face. 

Mycroft watches John purée stemmed ginger and then fold it into his dough. 

Sherlock looks intense, jumping from one pot to the other, stirring, tasting. He’s boiling pears, making caramel, as well as roasting pulverised almonds at the same time. Wanting to show the judges that he can do it, that last week was a fluke rather than an example of his talents, Mycroft thinks. He wonders how much of that was his responsibility. He knows Sherlock must have been affected by what happened as well, but how much? Or was it all about John? 

Mycroft forces himself to stop thinking about it. He watches Jim get mango liqueur from an expensive looking bottle. Molly makes an orange zest for her cream filling. John, a lemon curd. It’s relaxing, watching their skilled hands, predicting their little routines. 

Once the layers come out of the oven and cool a bit it’s just assembly. Sherlock is methodical about his as always, measuring out perfect rectangles and cutting them to form the mille-feuilles. 

John is doing it by eye but is adding something interesting to the top, a melted fondant, then icing, and uses a toothpick to feather the pattern. 

Molly’s look rather large with fresh berries in the middle and on top, and one of them falls over after being put together. 

Jim’s look neat, as always. The secret to patisserie is precision, Mycroft thinks. It needs to look delicate, it’s a part of an experience. Most of these people won’t understand that. 

Time gets called quickly after that, and they’re done. 

Mycroft hasn’t even been working in between, has just watched. The sleepless nights have made him slower than usual, he’s still recovering, body clinging to every bit of rest he gets. His mouth is dry, lips cracked. He can’t remember when he last had a drink, so he calls room service for tea and toast, and when it arrives dutifully pours a package of sugar into his tea, and adds a thick layer of butter and jam to the toast. It won’t do to end up in a hospital again. Not now. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft is well aware that he tends to the perfectionistic and controlling. He gets that from Mummy. 

He can lie perfectly well, but personality, that’s still where it becomes something of an art. He gathers up superficial smiles and shallow facades, and reflect them right back at those who are swayed by that kind of thing. He keeps his thoughts to himself, his intellect as well, too often. He learns to pretend to be charmed, or entertained, to be interested or impressed.

Sherlock is the only one for whom he never has to. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft watches the judging while eating mechanically. Bite, chew, drink, bite, chew. It tastes like cardboard, but the images on his screens are enough to make it passable. 

First up is Jim with his chestnut and mango liqueur mille-feuilles. Their look certainly fits the bill, Mycroft thinks, but the taste combination sounds a bit odd to him, then again he’s not fond of liqueurs. 

Right from the start it’s obvious that the judges have upped the game a notch. They scrutinise the pastry, look at it from all sides before even cutting into it. 

“It’s quite a tough puff pastry,” Lestrade notes, “it’s tough because you have slightly overworked it. You’ve essentially kneaded some of the puff out of it.” 

Jim’s face falls. 

“But I like the neatness, the bake is good.” 

Mrs. Hudson considers the piece before her. “The ratio of pastry and filling is not quite right. But the whole finish is absolutely beautiful, the taste combination is something new and different, just like we’ve come to expect from you, Jim.” 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. Oh, so they’re really trying to be critical today. That’ll be fun. 

Next is John with his lemon and ginger mille-feuilles, again a taste combination that seems off in a pastry that should be all about decadence, Mycroft thinks. 

Lestrade frowns, “A bit of a problem with the bake, on some of these?” 

“They could have done with a couple of minutes more, yeah,” John adds with characteristic grace. 

“There,” Lestrade turns one over and pricks it with a knife, “slightly underbaked.” 

Mycroft can barely see what he’s getting at. Surely this colour of bake they were happy with until a week ago. 

Mrs. Hudson smiles. “Lovely piping on the top though John, the feathering effect is well executed.” 

She tastes a piece. “I like the filling a lot, it is on the sharp side but the fondant you’ve used here on top is extremely sweet and I think the two complement each other.” 

Lestrade shakes his head, “No, I don’t like the filling. For me it’s too bitter, for a mille-feuille it should be sweeter and creamier than it is.” 

Mycroft agrees with him on principle. He understands John trying to branch out, but on this particular bake this is not the way to do it.

Then it’s up to Sherlock. His caramel and pear mille-feuilles are topped with the roasted almonds, and they look spectacular. Mycroft’s mouth waters just seeing them. He has another bite of his toast instead. 

Lestrade seems to be in his element, bending over the table and looking at the mille-feuilles extra long to find a fault with them, so Mrs. Hudson is left to ask the questions. “Sherlock, we saw you add vinegar to the dough earlier, why?” 

Even now, after all these weeks, Sherlock is still a little stiff when speaking on camera. Mycroft can tell that he would prefer not to say anything at all, but he does answer. “Vinegar is acidic, it breaks down the gluten in the dough.” 

“But won’t we taste it? Well, let’s have a try.” Mrs. Hudson slices off a piece for herself and one for Lestrade, and they eat carefully, first a small piece of pastry by itself and then a larger one with the combined flavours. 

Lestrade says, “I can’t taste the vinegar, I like the buttery flavour coming through in your pastry actually.” 

“I agree, it’s delicious.” Mrs. Hudson smiles generously. “The softness of the pear combined with the caramel, it’s a wonderful, wonderful flavour.” 

Lestrade nods. “Well done.” 

Mycroft sits back. Well, that was good. They couldn’t find a fault and didn’t even comment on the beautiful general presentation. 

Last up is Molly and her raspberry and blueberry mille-feuilles. They’re gigantic. They have nothing of flair, with entire berries wedged in between, it could just as well be a school project, Mycroft thinks.

“They look sort of friendly and homely, don’t they?” Mrs. Hudson says, too kind as always. She tastes. “They’re basic flavours but they taste really good.” 

Lestrade seems not so positive. “It crumbles and it cracks, which is nice, but take more care on your piping with the cream, Molly. And the fruit is too large. Appearance-wise it needs a lot of work, which is disappointing coming from you, should be better.” 

The cameras zoom out, but still catch John going over to Sherlock’s counter. 

Mycroft sees their private smile as Sherlock takes an entire mille-feuille and puts it to John’s mouth so that he can have a bite. 

Cream spills out over Sherlock’s fingers as John bites into it, John’s mouth has to work to get it all in, it’s messy. 

John closes his eyes in bliss while he chews. Sherlock looks on avidly and licks his lips. 

Mycroft gets up and turns the screens off. 

 

\---

 

He’s not charismatic, nor interested in pettiness, so he never assumed he would be suited for politics and he’s not, not in the populist sense of the word. But true authority tends to come to those who don’t feel the need for a spotlight, and he’s always been at ease in the shadows. 

The foundation of it is laid at uni, where he manages to not have an opinion on anything precise and yet have everyone in the room believe that he agrees with them. He doesn’t get recruited as much as he simply follows the most powerful people to where they are and gets them in his debt. 

And Mycroft enjoys his work, he does. He spends most of his days managing words, written and said, affecting the people behind it, all of them so vulnerable, so easily manipulated. Power is something of an illusion, of course. 

Except when it isn’t. 

 

\---

 

The Technical Challenge

Mycroft works the two hour lunch break through, mainly paperwork but when his focus slips he calls the main office, schedules a phone conference for later tonight and asks about anything that still has to be decided in the removal of a certain dictator. It’s been a long process but it looks as if they’re finally getting to it. 

He tunes back in just in time for the beginning of the technical. 

Sherlock is tapping his fingers on his counter, obviously eager to start. He has kissed John within the last half hour, Mycroft can tell, although there are no traces of vegetation on his clothes, nor is his hair mussed from lying down on a bed, so it must have been behind the tent or in a hallway then. 

“For your technical challenge this week, we’d like you to make a very special, very popular, very _French_ pastry... croissants!” 

A ripple of reactions goes through the tent. 

“They need to be crispy and gold on the outside, soft and buttery on the inside, and have an even bake and shape across the batch. You have three hours. Good luck!” 

Sherlock is pleased, of course, Mycroft can tell he is already planning to win this technical. 

John is looking at the recipe, a frown between his eyes. Not good then. 

Molly shakes her head at the camera. “I have never, no, I have never made a croissant. But I have made the dough so...” she sounds a little unsure of herself. 

Jim is wasting no time on reactions, he’s already putting his ingredients on his counter and measuring them out. 

Croissants are notoriously difficult to perfect. The dough, created by repeatedly rolling and folding alternate layers of butter and dough, is labour intensive and technically demanding, but it’s the finger rolling them into shape that really takes practise and skill. Mycroft remembers some of this from Sherlock’s passionate lectures in the days where he would still read cookbooks in bed at night. It only took a couple years before he declared them largely useless, but there was a time where he was obsessed, transfixed by the possibilities of combining ingredients into a whole. Mycroft sometimes thought that he was hoping to find a recipe for himself as well. A step-by-step guide to normality. 

John is still looking concerned. He mutters, “Half dough and half butter. This can’t be right. There’s butter in the dough as well, so these croissants will be what, seventy percent butter?” 

He’s mostly talking to himself, but Sherlock has heard and is looking at him from the corner of his eye. The next time John looks over to share one of his habitual ‘are you okay’ looks, Sherlock looks at the recipe in his hand and nods, nearly imperceptibly. John doesn’t react, but puts out his butter as directed. Interesting. Mycroft has never seen Sherlock help him before. 

Jim is back to making noise up front, humming today, little bits from an aria while he kneads, occasionally underscoring a note with a fat slap of his dough on the counter, paying no mind to the others. 

Molly is doing her best but her dough is wet and it keeps on sticking to her fingers and counter. John looks at her, takes his bottle of olive oil and spreads some on his hands. Molly takes her bottle as well, adds some to her dough and voilà, the texture becomes easier to handle. 

Are the three of them trying to get rid of Jim today? Mycroft is fairly sure this isn’t some sort of secret pact, so is it just intuitive? There is no way this will last into the final. 

Sherlock is working fast, adding a layer of butter, closing the dough, rolling, another layer. Mycroft can’t imagine an accomplished baker doing it any better. He is the first to finish.

The dough needs to prove in the fridge, so for now that means that they’re all going to stand around with nothing to do for nearly an hour and wait. Sherlock looks annoyed at the prospect, and Mycroft is inclined to agree. He gets himself another cup of tea, turns the sound down and sets to go over incident reports from the last week plus general performance reviews from everyone working for them. He doesn’t necessarily need to do so, but he likes to know what happened and where, how people act in these situations in case he would ever need to know their specific pressure points. 

He turns it back up in time to hear the end of an argument. 

Jim is leaning into Sherlock’s space, obviously annoyed, “Sweet pastry was brought back to Europe from the Middle East by soldiers returning from the crusades, stupid!” 

Molly and John have stopped their conversation to follow along. 

“As I said, croissant-like crescent pastries were being made in Austria long before they were in France.” Sherlock is using his flat voice, signalling that he’s about done with this conversation. 

John intervenes. “Maybe it’s time to check on the fridge, huh, see how that dough is coming along?” He sounds just a tad too amused to be taken seriously, but Jim does leave for his own counter to throw some pots and pans around. Sherlock complains to John for about a minute more about ‘working among morons without a basic understanding of baking history,’ while John dutifully nods and hums before going back to his own work. 

Mycroft has been at the receiving end of similar monologues way too many times, he knows the feeling. Fondness warring with exasperation. He dismisses a small twinge of regret. 

Sherlock hasn’t treated him like that in a very long time. 

 

\---

 

When he’s younger and quite a few of his classmates are getting married, Mycroft sporadically considers it. 

Having a wife. It wouldn’t be love, of course, he’s not nearly naive enough to think that someone might marry him out of affection. Nor attraction, he’s fairly certain he will be uncomfortable with anyone’s touch. But partnership, sharing the money and the large, empty house. Go to social events together, stand at each other’s side and smile. 

But then the same image always follows. A small bundle held to his chest, a _child_. Mycroft is not certain whether he would love it as deeply as he did Sherlock, or care nothing for it at all, but he can’t allow for the possibility of either ever happening, however remote it might be. 

He gets a vasectomy at twenty-seven. 

 

\---

 

Once the dough is proved, it needs to be rolled into the required croissant shape. This is where most of them will stumble, and they all seem to know it. 

It’s one thing to roll one passable croissant, another to roll all twelve in exactly the same way. They’re all taking care to weigh the dough, divide it into equal parts, roll it out into similar triangles, but then the actual shaping is difficult. Most of Molly’s rolls end up slightly crooked. John tries and tries again, his fingers steady but his lips pressed into a thin angry line. 

Jim is not nearly as subtle, loudly cursing and yelling at himself. “Why? Why won’t you stay? Oh fucking dough, fuck you, I will burn you, burn, you hear me!” 

And Sherlock, Sherlock smiles. 

Mycroft nearly laughs along with him. Oh, he’s going to win this one, and it is going to be great.

Even or not, all croissants have to be baked, and the camera picks up a lot of frustrated faces in front of their ovens. The bake is important, so Sherlock is keeping a close eye on his oven’s moisture levels and temperature, but he occasionally shares a remark with John, who is sitting on a chair before his own oven. They can’t see each other, but that doesn’t seem to stop them from talking. 

“John, this is boring.” Sherlock is sitting cross legged on the ground, the light from his oven illuminating his face. 

“Like watching paint dry?” John asks, while shifting slightly. His leg again. Must have been a difficult day so far for him to wince like that, Mycroft thinks. 

Sherlock seems confused. “Why would anyone watch paint dry?”

“Never mind.” John chuckles. 

Mycroft imagines them talking like that for hours, simply filling the time, speaking for the pleasure of being heard. 

Of course the ten-minute warning breaks the relative quiet and Sherlock is back on his feet. Jim hisses angrily at his croissants. Molly sighs. John gets up from his seat and takes his out with a weary shrug. 

At the countdown they’re all ready, neat rows of croissants displayed on their counters. Sherlock’s look heavenly. Mycroft realises he’s hungry, and thinks of ordering a sandwich later. Maybe he can stomach at least part of it. 

Jim’s don’t look that bad, not nearly as awful as he is making them out to be, but they are small, too tightly rolled perhaps. Molly’s are quite pale and they don’t have enough visible folds, not exactly a croissant. John’s are large and risen well, but also oddly shaped. 

The judging doesn’t take nearly as long as it did last challenge. 

John ends up in fourth place, Molly third, Jim second, and Sherlock, finally, first. He doesn’t beam nearly as nauseatingly as Jim is wont to do, but he does smile smugly. John, bless his heart, takes Sherlock’s hand, congratulates him and pushes him into the side of the tent on the way out for a kiss that goes on for minutes. 

Mycroft turns the screens off. He knows their routine by now. Sex first, probably, then a pleasant dinner if they can drag themselves out of their room. He swallows. Maybe he isn’t hungry at all. 

He texts Anthea to let her know that he is ready for the conference call, and gathers some relevant material as he waits. It always helps to have the data ready, let them think that he knows it all by heart. He finishes that off under the hour, then calls the American office, irons out some more plans. Once he’s done with that he gets up and stretches his legs a bit. It’s getting darker, so he turns on a lamp. 

It feels quiet, without the screens on. Mycroft looks at them. He could have a peek. Just see what they’re doing. Where they are. 

He sees Sherlock first, alone in his room. Playing with a pocket watch, he is throwing it up in the air and catching it again repeatedly. Mycroft squints. He remembers that watch. Used to be his own, a long time ago. His very first, actually, he was fond of it. Sherlock stole it, of course, then destroyed it during a fit of anger. Must be useless now. 

Maybe he’d like a new one, Mycroft thinks, to celebrate the end of the Bake Off next week. Something more expensive, stylish. Would Sherlock reject it? He can’t tell. 

Sherlock is staring at it, looking as if he’s a world away. His fingers trace the broken dials. 

Mycroft watches him for a long time. 

When there’s a knock at the door he turns the screens off. He’s not expecting anyone, he didn’t order food, it’s possible Anthea sent some up anyway but she should know better by now. Perhaps a delivery from Sherlock? Mycroft didn’t see him put anything away, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t. A croissant, still slightly warm. A mille-feuille, soft cream between his lips, crackling pastry. Oh. 

He walks to the door and opens it.

It’s John. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft sees torture regularly, doing what he does. He generally has the power to stop it, of course, but mostly decides not to. 

He knows that five stories is a high enough fall to break someone’s spinal cord, but two is not, so sometimes he tries something in the middle and wishes the victim good luck. He murdered a man once by force feeding him the exact substance he was trying to poison others with. It felt rather pleasant, like a neat bow on top of a present. He told Sherlock about it in bed, later. 

Then there’s what happened to Sherlock’s dealer, the one who raped him, but he never told Sherlock about that. It might have been... excessive. 

Mycroft is capable of much more than anyone but a very small amount of people suspect, and he enjoys that fact. There’s no use in advertising these things, after all.

 

\---

 

John is leaning on his cane, a look of determination on his face. Mycroft scans the hallway behind him but he is alone. He’s not carrying cake this time either, unsurprisingly.

Mycroft draws a breath. “Do come in.” 

John walks into the room stiffly. 

Mycroft shows him to the sofa. “Drink?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. Mycroft doesn’t drink much alcohol himself, any loss of control could be extremely damaging. But in this situation he understands it for the social construct that it is, it will give John something to exert control over, however small it might be. Mycroft pours a glass of whiskey for John and, after a moment, one for himself. He suspects he’s going to want it once they’re through. 

He hands a glass to John, and sits down. Mycroft tries for a smile. “What can I do for you, John?” 

He has a sip of his drink as he waits for John to find the words he’s come here to say. The whiskey tingles slightly on his lips, burns his mouth, heats his throat on the way down. He remembers that he has barely eaten today. 

John doesn’t waste much time. “You know Sherlock told me.”

“I am aware.” Mycroft keeps his voice mild. He wants to hear this, he realises. He wants to know why good and dependable John would leave Sherlock alone on a bed and instead choose to visit him. He briefly remembers the image of John with a gun, come to take revenge. He didn’t know him well yet then. 

Mycroft looks John over. Tense jaw, straight posture. John could still do it today, shoot him. Some part of him approves of the thought; Sherlock needs a man who can handle violence. 

“Did you ever force him?” John asks without flinching, and the threat is obvious in his voice. 

Mycroft feels the tightness in his throat rise. “Did Sherlock tell you that?” He could have. Mycroft is prepared to be the villain in this story if that is what it’s going to take. Perhaps he would even like to be. 

“No.” John sighs. “He says that he wanted it, and that he loved you.” 

Mycroft’s grip on the glass tightens. He wishes he would have had the foresight to sit further away. With the desk between them perhaps, it would have alienated John, triggered associations of command, but it would have given him distance, and it would have felt not nearly as informal as this does. 

John looks determined to get some answers, concerned as well, a trace of curiosity. “Do you love him?”

Of course, Mycroft thinks immediately. Deeply, terrifyingly so. “More than he’ll ever know.” 

John nods. He seems less nervous than when he came in. He is hearing what he expected to hear, Mycroft thinks. John’s hands have a couple half-healed burns on them from baking. Not nearly as many as Sherlock’s do, though. His cane still has a trace of soil on it.

John looks him in the eye. “He was young.”

He was. Very. Mycroft realises he is showing some of the guilt in his face, tries to school it into something blank and then decides not to. Opens it up, lets John see. “Yes.” 

“You feel guilty.” John deducts easily. 

“I do.” No use in denying it. “I should have refused him, but I did not.” I was desperate, Mycroft thinks. He was insistent, he was everything I had ever wanted or cared for. “I was the adult and I should have acted as such. I am responsible and I will regret doing what we did for the rest of my life.” 

John shifts in his seat. Takes a drink. 

Then, out of nowhere, offers “Well, he’s hard to say no to.”

Mycroft breathes a disbelieving breath. Is he really joking about this? He can barely manage to make eye contact. “Indeed.” 

A silence falls. John looks down at his glass as he spins the liquid. “Are you alright with me and him then?” 

Mycroft considers his answer carefully. “I have never seen Sherlock as happy as he is right now.” It’s not a lie.

John’s face slowly clears. He smiles. 

Mycroft realises that this will probably be the only time that he has John like this, here on his own initiative, alone and willing to talk. “My brother can be difficult, John. He will try you in innumerable ways.”

John nods wryly, “Yes, I am starting to see that.” But his eyes say something different. He’s in love right now. He thinks he can handle whatever will come, that he’s strong enough simply because he cares. 

But caring won’t be enough. He needs to understand that. “If you are willing to do this, then you cannot give up on him, John. Ever. It will destroy him if you do.” 

John seems to be taken aback by his words but, to his credit, considers them. “You said you worried about him?” 

“Constantly.” Mycroft repeats, remembering their earlier conversation. It is still as true as it was then. Sherlock would go back to drugs. Sherlock would kill himself should John leave him a couple years down the line, Mycroft is eerily certain of it. 

“But you approve?” John seems to want to have this absolutely clear between them.

Mycroft obliges him. “I approve of your relationship, yes.” 

“Good.” John says again. “I’m, eh, glad.” He seems to be readying to leave, touches his cane, but not quite. He looks at his hands, then up at Mycroft, visibly braces himself. “You want to be with him, still?” 

Mycroft opens his mouth, for a lie or the truth, he doesn’t know. He could lie so easily. Eventually he settles on “It would not be advisable.”

John has heard what he hasn’t said. He can see a hint of sympathy gather in his eyes. 

Mycroft suddenly has enough of this conversation. He doesn’t need John’s pity. He rises. “I imagine that he will be wanting your company soon.” 

John rises as well, a bit hurried. “Yes, yes, of course, um.” John extends his hand. 

Mycroft looks at it. Most of his subordinates know that he doesn’t like to be touched. He hesitates a second too long because John is already looking slightly less sure of himself, so Mycroft quickly reaches out and captures it. John’s grip is warm and strong. Reliable, Mycroft thinks again. He briefly thinks of those hands on his hips, holding him steady. What it would be like to get fucked by him. 

John clears his throat. Mycroft realises he’s squeezing him rather hard and lets go. 

“Do come back sometime, John.” He’s not certain whether he means that. 

“Yes, thank you.” John nods and walks away. 

 

\---

 

In the years after Sherlock, Mycroft sleeps with a man just once. 

He’s at a concert, and the violinist, a Czech he has never heard before, plays so expertly, so perfectly that he feels transported. The whole world weaves and waves with colour, his every feeling is scraped out and diluted into music and he has to excuse himself to simply listen, transfixed. 

Mycroft tells Anthea to offer that man whatever he wants to come back to his room and play. He knocks on the door half an hour later. He’s middle aged, short with a wild wave of hair, thick glasses and a strong accent, changed out of his suit into ragged jeans and a sweater, carrying a violin case. Mycroft tells him to play, lies down on the bed, closes his eyes and drifts on perfection. Later he lets him fuck him with the music still running through his mind. 

Anthea tells him that what he asked for was to play in the Royal Albert Hall. Mycroft makes sure he gets to do it year after year. And goes to listen, every time. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft finishes his drink in one large gulp as soon as John closes the door behind him. 

He doesn’t know how to define that little visit. Simple interest? It wasn’t fear, John isn’t afraid of him. In fact he felt... kind. Mycroft would have preferred an open threat over this. He can still feel John’s hand in his. He stretches his fingers against the fabric of his knee and turns the screens on again, waits along with Sherlock for John’s return. 

Sherlock is still sitting on his bed, the pocket watch to his side now, writing notes, several books on patisserie open next to him. Mycroft turns the sound up and tries to focus on sending some emails on his phone, listening to the occasional rustle of paper and mumble as Sherlock reads something out loud. He startles just as much as Sherlock does when half an hour later there is a strong knock on the door. Sherlock doesn’t bother getting up, just says “John, come in.” 

John walks in, and Sherlock doesn’t even need to look him over, simply keeps on scribbling his notes. “How is he?” 

John startles. “How did you... all right, never mind. Yes, he’s fine.” He throws his coat over a chair, and balances his cane in a corner before going to sit next to Sherlock on his bed.

“Fine how?” Mycroft is surprised to hear badly disguised interest in Sherlock’s voice. 

John takes off his shoes, so sure of his welcome, so at ease. “Um, he looked better than last week, the bandage on his head is gone, he was, yeah, he was nice enough.” 

“Mycroft is never _nice_.” Sherlock seems to be utterly convinced of this fact. Mycroft grins. 

“He offered me a drink, talked to me.” John gathers some of the notes spread all over the bed into a neat pile, hands them to Sherlock and sits down higher on the bed, next to him.

Sherlock puts his notes on his nightstand. “What did you say?” Mycroft is surprised again to hear him ask at all. 

John doesn’t seem to have any qualms about telling him. “I asked whether he’s okay with you and me.”

“Of course he is.” Sherlock says. “He likes you.” Mycroft laughs bitterly. Oh, Sherlock. 

“He loves you.” John says it matter-of-factly. Mycroft watches Sherlock’s reaction closely, sees it aggravate him. John hesitates. “I asked whether he wants to be with you.” 

Sherlock closes his eyes briefly, a flash of pain so obvious that Mycroft almost feels it too. Then opens them again, back in control. “Yes, well, I hope he satisfied your curiosity?” He sounds irritated, Mycroft thinks. He wants to warn John. Don’t push this. 

“Sherlock.” John puts his hand on Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock shoves him off. 

“Hey.” John touches him again, hand on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock makes a motion to shrug him off, but doesn’t twist away completely. 

“It’s fine.” John says, moving his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder, pulling him closer. “It’s fine.” 

Sherlock lets himself be pulled in, leans over John. “It’s fine.” 

John kisses him. 

Mycroft gets up and walks to his desk. He sits down on his chair, rests his face behind his hands and breathes. He feels nauseous. 

He hasn’t turned the screens off so he can hear the soft rumble of their conversation, the wet sound of their kisses, the rustle of clothes being shed. When he looks back up he can see the tantalising lines of Sherlock’s naked back, the play of light and shadow over his shoulder blades and spine, the minute movements of his arse cheeks as he rubs off against John. 

Mycroft gets up so fast he overturns his chair with a brutal clatter, strides up there and turns the screens off, heart beating painfully in his chest. 

He doesn’t sleep that night. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft knows he can be harsh. That’s he’s difficult, cruel, and unpleasant. 

But people are so very dull. Not the responsibility of them per se, but their personal intricacies, details, _feelings_. They’re too slow, too boring, Mycroft spends large parts of his days explaining things that should be obvious to everyone. He chooses to channel his destruction wisely, to indulge in ruining only those who deserve it, but he’s capable of much more. He could cripple the nation, should he want to. 

Sometimes he considers it.

 

\---

 

He takes a short walk outside around six in the morning while he is on the phone with China. Just to get some air, to keep himself moving. 

It’s quiet outside so early, although there is some activity. A single man walking his dog. A woman jogging. The air feels wet, there is dew on the grass and a weak sun promising beautiful weather later. 

Mycroft’s eyes are dry and every blink feels as if there is sand stuck in them. His sense of balance is off, and his thoughts keep wandering. He hasn’t slept in forty-eight hours. He realises that he needs to, that if he keeps going like this he won’t even be able to work, but he can’t stop himself from thinking. _You want to be with him, still?_

On his way back he sees a woman opening up her store, unrolling a white and orange striped sun cover to protect her goods in the front window. 

It’s a bakery. 

Mycroft finds himself inside unsure of how he made the decision to go in. He doesn’t even have money on him, pays for a single croissant by credit card. He walks back to the hotel tearing it apart with his fingers, stuffing it into his mouth piece by piece, crumbling it under his fingers and licking them after. 

It’s not nearly the release he needs but it is enough, because once he’s back in his room he lies down on his bed, closes his eyes and sleeps. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft still hires call girls every once in a while, if he is feeling particularly ironic. 

Not for sex exactly. He asks them to chain him up, whip him, hit him across the face. To tell him that he’s worthless and fuck him with a dildo until he tells them to stop. It usually takes a very long time. 

As he cleans the blood and lube off later, ever muscle, every movement sore, he thinks that there’s probably a great laugh in there somewhere, but it helps him manage sometimes. Stay in control. 

 

\---

 

The Showstopper Challenge

Mycroft wakes up to a beep. Then another beep. 

He blinks repeatedly as the sunshine stings his eyes. His mouth feels woollen, his head heavy. 

He takes his phone and hazily scans the messages, all twenty-three of them. It’s nearly one. If something important happened Anthea would have woken him of course, but Mycroft mentally curses the fact that he never gave her instructions pertaining to the Bake Off. 

He sits up, realises he’s still in yesterday’s suit, but turns on the screens first anyway. He has missed half of the bake already. 

“...it all sounds very technical to me but you’re certainly able to cope with that.” Lestrade has just finished checking on Jim’s progress. Jim is making pastry, but Mycroft can’t tell much more than that it involves butter and a rolling pin. 

The cameras show Molly carefully piping meringue onto a baking sheet, John who is melting chocolate, and Sherlock, slicing chilli peppers while wearing gloves and goggles. He looks like a deranged scientist in the middle of a class of perfectly behaved bakers. Mycroft smiles. 

They all seem to be making several things at once today, all quite small, which means that it must be petit fours, finally. 

Sherlock used to be fond of the concept. Mycroft remembers whole trays of bite-sized desserts in bed between them, each one prettier and more delicate than the next, Sherlock’s warm fingers pressing them to his lips.

Lestrade walks over to John’s counter and frowns. “John, melting chocolate in water, that’s not done, it’s going to separate. What are you hoping to achieve?” Lestrade sounds personally affronted that he’s even seeing this. 

Mrs. Hudson hears and comes over to see what’s going on. 

John smiles. “Ah, watch.” He puts the bowl of melted watery chocolate over ice, then starts whisking it. “I learnt this from a friend in Antarctica.”

The chocolate slowly froths into a dark creamy substance, growing higher and airier at every pass of the whisk. “This creates a pure chocolate mousse without the need to add cream or egg white.”

“Really?” Mrs. Hudson sounds amazed. 

“I have never seen that done before.” Lestrade admits. 

Sherlock throws a look of pride over at John that John doesn’t see, but Mycroft does. He realises he has a headache again. He rubs his temples. His stomach is grumbling. 

Molly has put her hair into a sensible twist today. She isn’t wearing any make-up either. She seems focused, here to bake today and nothing else. She has finished piping her meringues and slides them into the oven. 

Mrs. Hudson walks over to her. “Molly, how are you doing?”

“Good, so far, only the time pressure. This is a lot to get done.” She starts on a mixture for cheesecake.

“If this was the tour de France we’d be in the Dordogne area. We’re half way through.” Lestrade says from the other side of the room. 

Molly looks a little unsure as to how seriously to take his remark. “Um, yes.” She doesn’t stop working, starts slicing rhubarb and puts it in the blender. 

“Rhubarb cheesecake, is that going to be somewhat sour?” Mrs. Hudson asks. 

“Maybe a little,” Molly admits, “But I have so many other sweet flavours that I think it will work.” 

“Well, good luck to you, Molly.” Lestrade says. Mycroft raises an eyebrow. Was he trying to flirt there? If so he was even more pathetic than any of Henry’s attempts. Molly seems oblivious to it, working as fast as she is. She seems to be well on schedule.

Sherlock finishes with his chilli peppers and removes his gear. His curls are standing on end from the goggles. He looks mostly collected, the crazy hair notwithstanding. Mycroft recognises his ‘very busy, do not disturb’ face, but of course the judges do disturb him. 

“Chilli and lime in a macaroon, Sherlock?” Even Mrs. Hudson seems a little doubtful. “Is this a new flavour combination to you?” 

Sherlock says smoothly. “It was when I discovered it.” Then one-handed starts piping his macaroons while mixing the peppers with sugar with his other hand. 

Mrs. Hudson smiles, but Lestrade rolls his eyes. They do leave him alone after that. 

Mycroft figures there’s a long way to go until the end still, so he uses the bathroom, gets some tea, and makes himself comfortable. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft spends years carefully constructing his reputation, because he has nothing else that matters. 

While everyone else is out with their families or their whores, Mycroft is at the office, working, planning. And he doesn’t think that anyone ever will know that he does it all to cover up for his grand imperfection, to make up for his one love. But as he gradually learns the secrets of the great men and women around him he starts realising that they all are compensating for something. A murder here, a secret lover or child there, bribes, unsavoury addictions and ludicrous fetishes, they all have their sins. 

It doesn’t make him feel less alone.

 

\---

 

Sherlock’s macaroons are resting on the side of his counter, waiting to go into the oven. Jim has just started on some of his own, Mycroft recognises him folding almonds and blackcurrants into stiff egg white, then piping it.

Molly’s cheesecakes are done and she is spreading out a whole sheet of red decor paste. 

John has a shell tin for madeleines lined with butter and sugar. He puts some batter into it, and places a raspberry in each before putting it into the oven, then immediately moves on to make little towers of his chocolate mousse on top of a hazelnut bottom. Nobody is lingering today. 

Mycroft watches the tense sprints across the tent, the worried looks into the oven, the errant beads of sweat wiped off their brows. It’s obvious that they’re all aware that someone is definitely going home today. Mycroft has his own ideas of who that should be, of course, but he doubts that they will let Jim go. He’s too good. Disappointingly Mycroft hasn’t been able to dig up anything on him even now, and not for lack of trying. Not even a traffic violation. 

Half an hour to go. The sunshine is getting oppressive inside his room, the large floor to ceiling windows letting in too much light. Mycroft closes some of the curtains. 

Jim assembles thin sheets of coloured sponge cake into Neapolitan squares, finishes them with a little dot of whipped cream and chocolate flakes on top, and starts turning choux buns into little swans. 

Sherlock spoons a very thin layer of melted white chocolate on his black fruit meringues, and looks into his oven every couple seconds, waiting for his Bakewell tarts to turn the perfect golden brown. 

Molly presses round circles out of a sponge cake, adds cream and jam in the middle and combines them into mini Victoria sandwiches. 

John glazes his friands, and starts decorating his chocolate petit fours. His madeleines have only just gone into the oven. He looks red in the face. 

Fifteen minutes. 

Molly pipes little dots of cream into her meringue nests and completes the look with a thin slice of fresh strawberry on top, then gets her cheesecakes out of the fridge and starts arranging them into alternating circles. 

Jim races through the tent and barely avoids bumping into her. 

John decorates his friands, hums unhappily at the oven but takes madeleines out anyway and walks them straight to the fridge. 

Sherlock’s Bakewell tarts have come out and are cooling on the end of his counter, he pipes his meringues with syllabub, and his macaroons with lime and raspberry filling.

Five minutes. 

John takes his madeleines out of the fridge, pushes them out of their tins and turns them in dark sugar, then leaves them there, and starts putting his display together 

Sherlock is piling his macaroons into a neat tower to show off their evenness, then presses some tiny flowers in a circle pattern on top of his Bakewell tarts, washes some berries, slices them and adds them on top of his meringue. It’s obvious he would like more time to do it perfectly, he’s looking up at the clock frequently, but there isn’t any. 

Jim pipes peppermint filling into his macaroons and puts them directly into a clear display case, then his cygnets. He nearly drops one, catches it just in time but the neck is broken. He curses loudly. He doesn’t seem to have a backup so the broken one goes in there with the rest. 

Molly is the only one who is mostly done, she’s working on her finishing touches, wiping down her trays, straightening out her Victoria sandwiches. 

“Three, two, one...”

John near-throws his madeleines onto a tray, Molly’s hands are in the air, Sherlock straightens one more tart, Jim closes his case...

“.... and done! Stop touching your bakes!” 

They’re all flushed, clothes splattered with traces of flour and batter, and wearing the harried expressions of having just spent four hours intensely baking. 

Mrs. Hudson smiles. “We’ll take a one and a half hour break before judging, that’ll give us all a chance to eat something, clean up a bit and rest. See you soon!”

They all file out of the tent in varying stages of exhaustion. John especially looks bad, Mycroft thinks, moving slowly, leaning on his cane. But Sherlock keeps pace with him, silent, probably reviewing his bakes in his head. 

Mycroft turns the screens off and goes to take a shower. 

He shaves carefully, picks out a new suit, matching socks and underwear. He puts on a fresh shirt, the fabric cool on his washed skin. 

He takes his time buttoning it up, adding layer after layer to himself. He folds a silk handkerchief into his pocket, attaches his pocket watch, then uses his fingers to push his hair down, and adds a splash of cologne to his neck, straightens his cuffs. 

He is done well before their break is so he sets to answering the most urgent messages on his phone, as well as checks in with Anthea briefly. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft still fantasises about Sherlock’s mind, his body. 

Still touches himself when he’s alone in the dark, thinking of Sherlock feeding him sweet things. Sherlock’s lips around his cock, Sherlock’s hands around his neck, Sherlock pressing him down into the mattress and fucking him. Sherlock who knows his every weakness like the back of his hand and carelessly exploits them, Sherlock who knows how to drive him mad with lust. 

He’s never had a sexual experience that even remotely compared to that. 

Never.

 

\---

 

The cameras are filming close-ups of the assorted bakes before the judging begins, and they look marvellous. Three different types from every contestant means twelve different varieties, all in contrasting colours, all perfected to the smallest detail. Petit fours should each be a single mouthful, exquisite and perfect. Visual presentation is extremely important. 

Mycroft remembers eating during the judging yesterday, so he calls down for a salad. 

On their return, most of the bakers look a bit more collected, albeit nervous. Sherlock in particular looks agitated, he can’t stop moving, tapping his fingers, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Mycroft is glad for him when the judges start with him today. 

“Well, don’t those look inviting, Sherlock! You’ve got them all the same size, the right balance, so precise.” Mrs. Hudson seems excited. Sherlock pushes a plate into her hand in his eagerness to get her to taste. The first one is his gooseberry and elderflower Bakewell tart. 

“Can we turn that one upside down?” Lestrade asks, and then studies it carefully. It’s perfect as far as Mycroft can see. “Yes, beautiful even bake.” 

Mrs. Hudson tastes, “The pastry is a very, very thin layer, all very crisp. The flavour is lovely.”

Lestrade still seems eager to find fault with it. “Have you got a jam layer on the bottom of that?” 

“Yes, I made gooseberry and elderflower jam.” Sherlock sounds proud of himself, as he should well be. 

“Hmm,” Lestrade tastes again, “Not bad.” 

Next up is his black fruit meringue with everlasting syllabub. Sherlock is biting his lips in anxiety. 

“I like the way you didn’t use food colouring, you used the actual fruit, which has given it a lovely colour.” The petit four looks a gorgeous soft purple. Mycroft licks his lips. 

Lestrade has a taste. “Whatever is in that syllabub, it’s too strong for me. We have told you this before Sherlock, you tend to go overboard on the flavours.” 

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head. “I think it’s absolutely lovely, dear. I think I’ll have a little bit more just to disagree again.” 

There’s a knock on the door. Mycroft has no desire to miss any of this, he dislikes raising his voice, but this time he makes an exception. “Put it by the door!” 

Last are Sherlock’s chilli, lime and raspberry macaroons. These will be highly important for his total score, Mycroft thinks. Either they’ll deem them to be too out there, or ingenious. 

“What we do like is originality, and I have never heard of these.” Lestrade admits.

“They look so tantalizing with the chilli topping.” Mrs. Hudson says. They do. 

Lestrade tastes one. “Chewy. The chilli is there but it’s not overpowering at all.” 

“That really works, it just dances on your tongue.” Mrs. Hudson seems delighted. So does Sherlock, cautiously so. Mycroft breathes. Good. 

He gets up to find his salad neatly presented on a tray on the carpet outside his door, and takes it in. 

 

They’re already looking at Molly’s strawberry and cream meringue nests when he sits back down. “It’s a nice idea and the meringue is very good, it melts, the texture is right.” 

Then her mini Victoria sandwiches, “Hmm, Victoria sponge is an absolute classic, it’s a nice light bake, you’ve got that gentle flavour of the fruit coming in, and it doesn’t kick you in the teeth.” 

And her rhubarb cheesecakes, “It’s creamy, but, like I thought, too sharp for my taste, very soft and quite difficult to eat as well, you really have to serve these chilled.” 

Mycroft sticks the greens with his fork and fills his mouth with them. It’s like eating grass. 

 

Jim’s turn. Mrs. Hudson seems enthralled right of the bat. “They look so tempting and pretty, I feel as if I’m in Paris.” It really looks nothing like Paris, Mycroft thinks. Granted, the times he has been there in the last couple of years he has spent nearly all of his time in the airport, cars or fortified bunkers, not sampling the local delights in bakeries. But still. 

They try Jim’s Neapolitan ice-cream sponges first, “I think it’s a nice idea but I think it’s too big, you’ve shown us a lot of skill but your technique gets lost in the whole. I find that a little disappointing. It’s a bit dry.” Dry sponge at this point is near unforgivable and Jim seems to realise it. 

Then his lime curd choux pastry cygnets. “Well, aren’t they pretty.” Mrs. Hudson is sounding enthusiastic again. 

Lestrade is a bit less so. “You’ve made them very elaborate and embellished, but the taste is rather average.” 

And his blackberry and peppermint macaroons, “Not much of a shine on the top, I do like the peppermint, but it’s got a bit of heat to it too which I don’t necessarily think agrees with the blackcurrants. It’s a shame.” 

 

Last up is John, who looks tired again, dark ridges under his eyes. Mycroft wonders if it’s just the leg bothering him today or if it’s more than that. He seems to be in pain constantly. Could he do something for him perhaps? Find a specialist? 

They taste John’s apricot and pistachio friands, “They are beautifully baked and you get the real flavour of the nuts coming through.” Lestrade likes John, Mycroft thinks. They seem to have a similar temperament. 

“The pistachio is soft and squidgy, it is a joy to eat!” And of course Mrs. Hudson loves him, she’s already planning for John to move in, most likely. Clearing out the kitchen cupboards. 

Then his chocolate indulgence petit fours, “The biscuit’s good, and the mousse is excellent. It’s quite sharp, isn’t it?” That would be because of the missing cream, probably. 

“Surprising. Plus, wonderful technique earlier. It doesn’t happen often that we learn something new.” Lestrade seems genuinely impressed. 

And last are his lemon madeleines, “The size of these is probably a little bit too big, for a petit four it should have a better appearance, it seems unfinished. The flavour’s there, texture’s there, but the look is terrible.” They really don’t look that well. Pity. 

Mycroft sends a note to Anthea to find him John’s medical file and forward it to the relevant experts. Sherlock doesn’t need to know. Neither does John, for that matter. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft carries a gun for two years, but he never draws it on anyone, so eventually he puts it in a drawer where it gathers dust. It’s so easy to intimidate with a gun that it feels beneath him. Fear is only as good as the type of man that inspires it, after all. 

He likes his umbrella better, it’s dignified. 

He has an entire collection of them, for summertime, winter, one that matches his blue suits, one for greys, one for browns. One for funerals, one for secret operations, one with stripes that seems to annoy Sherlock more than the rest of them for some superficial reason or other so he keeps that one in mint condition and uses it every time he goes over to 221b Baker Street, especially if it doesn’t match his suit. It makes Sherlock twitch.

 

\---

 

John stays seated, obviously not quite up to standing, but Sherlock comes to him this time while the judges confer. 

John smiles his familiar grin. “Hey, you.” Sherlock nods, and leans into him a little. It seems almost organic by now how the two of them interact. “You know what I’d like?” 

“What?” Sherlock seems instantly ready to do whatever it is.

“Let me try one of those chilli macaroons, I’ve been curious about them ever since I saw you in that kinky mask.” John seems to be half kidding, and Sherlock shares in the warmth of his smile, then gets him a single macaroon as ordered and feeds it to him. 

Mycroft thinks about finishing his salad, then gives up and pushes it away. 

The judges take their time today. Sherlock feeds John a piece of his Bakewell tart, one of his meringues and then a second macaroon while they confer. Molly brings John and Sherlock both a cup of tea. Jim paces circles around his counter. 

Next week is the final. It seems too soon in a way, but on the other hand Mycroft feels as if he has been doing this for months now. Watching them bake from the sidelines. 

When the judges finally appear everyone hurries to their assigned seats. They all want to know quickly. 

“Hello, bakers.” Mrs Hudson looks over the four of them with obvious fondness. “First I can tell you the good news. It took some discussion, but we have agreed on our star baker.” 

Will they have chosen Sherlock? Mycroft severely hopes so, but he can’t be certain. Their judging is always so fraught with emotions, personal tastes. It’s hard to know whether they’re being objective without getting to taste anything himself. 

“This person has blown us away week after week with their creativity, their dedication to flavour and precision.”

Mycroft sees Sherlock’s face tense, the hope in his eyes. 

“Sherlock, come up here!”

Ah! He deserves it, and Mycroft doesn’t think that anyone could argue otherwise. He smiles as he sees Sherlock jump up, half-hug Mrs. Hudson, shake hands with Lestrade, and then sit back down and share an elated look with John. It’s rather nice to watch John’s obvious pride at him, and Sherlock’s self-satisfied expression. Mycroft can’t remember whether Sherlock has ever competed in anything. Or won, for that matter. 

“And now the bad news,” Lestrade says. He seems honestly sorry. Mycroft has a good idea of who it will be, and yes, Lestrade looks at all of them, then looks at one in particular. “Molly, I am so very sorry.” 

She blinks away the tears in her eyes, and gets up to hug everyone. Lestrade first (he seems just a tad chuffed at that), then Mrs. Hudson, John, who seems emotional himself, then Jim who lifts her up to make her smile. 

Then there’s only Sherlock left. Molly looks at him hopefully. Mycroft isn’t sure what he’ll do, but Sherlock leans down and briefly pecks her on the cheek. “Goodbye, Molly Hooper.” She blushes brightly. 

“We will miss you.” John says, and then her tears start rolling again. 

It’s a much longer goodbye than any of the previous ones, and even when they’re all walking out of the tent, John leaning on his cane and Sherlock’s wordlessly offered arm, there is still hugging and crying and promises to see each other soon being made. 

Mycroft turns the screens off.

He should go back to London, now. 

He doesn’t.

He tells himself that he has paperwork, and he does. He tells himself that he has calls to make, that the drive back will be more pleasant later on, but they’re excuses, all of them. He’s always been a rather accomplished liar, and this is easy. Anticipation is much more difficult to control. 

Mycroft works on the sofa, goes to sit behind the desk, back to the sofa, then to a different chair. He paces around the room when he takes a call, but then finishes it quickly because his mind isn’t on it. He goes into the corridor but then returns again. 

It’s summer so it takes a long time for the sun to set, it colours the sky in oranges and gold. 

He’s standing there when Sherlock finds him, staring out the window. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft has gotten offers throughout the years. Assistants, informants hoping for a perk, terrorists while pleading for their life, men and women from the secret service, a single superior once. He keeps his distance, if necessary insinuates to the men that he is straight and to the women that he is gay. Most assume he’s a widower, especially once he starts wearing a ring.

He knows very well that they call him the Ice Man. He doesn’t dislike it. 

It won’t do to get involved. 

 

\---

 

“You’re still here.” Sherlock only states the obvious as a greeting when he’s feeling off kilter. His voice sounds deep, familiar. Mycroft feels it crawl over his back. 

He turns around slowly, draws out the inevitable. Sherlock is standing in the doorway. Mycroft wonders whether he will smell like baking, up close. Whether his hands will taste like melted butter, his neck like traces of chocolate mingled with sweat. “I am.” 

Sherlock looks striking, rumpled as he is, undoubtedly tired, but his eyes are aflame reflecting the sunset outside. Mycroft’s legs take a step forward, another. 

Sherlock pulls the door closed behind him, and carefully puts a covered plate on his desk. “I chose the best ones for you.” 

Mycroft is reminded of his long-ago childish enthusiasm. ‘I made you this, Mycroft, I’ll do this for you, Mycroft, you’ll love it, Mycroft.’ He can still hear that voice in the back of his head if he tries hard enough. 

“Will you eat?” 

They’re standing with a desk between them, eerily similar to the last time they did this. Mycroft can see the memory reflected in Sherlock’s eyes as well. 

He doesn’t need to think about it. “Yes.”

Sherlock opens his plate. There’s two of every flavour petit four, and one mille-feuille, all lined up neatly. “Sit down.” 

Mycroft pulls out his desk chair and sits in it. Sherlock selects a macaroon first, gives it to him, then leans back on the desk, eyes expectant. 

Mycroft licks a tiny bit of the powdered chilli off the edge of the macaroon. It stings his lips. He enjoys the shock of it. 

“Bite.” Sherlock says. 

Mycroft does, presses his teeth into the chewy crackle of macaroon, lets his mouth be soothed by grainy sugar and bursts of tangy sweetness from the raspberry. He presses his tongue in between the two halves, licks the lime filling, feels it fizzle on the tip of his tongue into tartness, then chews, pounds it between his teeth, and swallows languidly. 

He puts the rest of the macaroon into his mouth and closes his eyes. Sherlock sighs softly. 

Mycroft has barely finished chewing when Sherlock takes the meringue and presses it against his lips. He wants to say no. He wants to tell Sherlock to slow down, to let him breathe in between at least, but at the same time if feels absolutely overwhelming to need to do nothing else but open his mouth and taste. He bites into the meringue, lets the taste of berries, the sweet hint of white chocolate and the crunch of brittle texture carry him away. His arms fall next to his sides.

He feels Sherlock’s fingers touch the side of his face. Then his cheek. They trace the frail shell of his closed eyes. It feels intimate, nearly too much so. “Look at me.”

Mycroft does. 

Sherlock is leaning over him. His eyes are intent. He’s holding a small piece of a Bakewell tart. 

Mycroft opens his mouth so Sherlock’s fingers can put it on his tongue. They linger again, settle on his lips this time. Mycroft keeps looking at Sherlock as he tastes the gooseberry jam, cloy and sharp, then the thin layer of buttery pastry that melts in his mouth. 

Sherlock’s eyes are following his every thought. 

They can stop this, Mycroft thinks. They can stop this right now. Let it be just about the eating, nothing more. But he’s already hard and Sherlock knows it. 

Sherlock’s hand touches his knee, follows the inseam of his trousers, then settles on the outline of his erection as if it belongs there and Mycroft feels himself shiver. Want.

Sherlock reaches for the mille-feuille. Mycroft’s eyes follow his hand.

No small piece now. Mycroft needs to open up his mouth to take a full bite, and cream spills decadently over Sherlock’s fingers when he does. He tastes dark caramel, soft pear, a flake of roasted almonds, the dryness of the pastry but mainly the cream, filling up his mouth, making it hard to think of anything else than this, bite, swallow. He moves into Sherlock’s hand, feels his responding squeeze. 

Mycroft licks the cream off of Sherlock’s fingers, first one, then the next, up to Sherlock’s wrist where he scrapes his teeth over the pulse point, then to the curve of his elbow where his shirtsleeve is rolled up, where Sherlock is slightly ticklish, where he can taste a trace of salt and sweat as he sucks on his skin. He can hear Sherlock’s breaths over the rushing in his ears. 

Sherlock opens Mycroft’s trousers, undoes the buttons one by one. Then turns back to the tray, puts a dab of cream on his finger and presses it to Mycroft’s lips, has him suck it off again, his other hand tracing him only through his underwear now, fingers tantalisingly slow. 

Sherlock is hard as well, Mycroft notes while he worries the pad of Sherlock’s finger, takes it all the way to his knuckle between his lips, relaxes his mouth, makes it soft and open. 

Sherlock swallows audibly. 

It’s been years since they’ve done this. So very long. Mycroft feels heat radiating from his face, his erection feels heavy, jumps up eagerly under Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock is breathing fast, hands unsteady as he slowly reaches out, and pushes on the elastic of Mycroft’s pants. Mycroft raises his hips so that he can pull them down, and Sherlock can see. The evidence. How hard he is, how he’s already straining for it. 

Sherlock puts his hand on him, and it’s electric. It’s almost too intense, the slide of skin to skin. Sherlock presses another piece of macaroon between Mycroft’s lips, moans a weak little moan as he eats. 

He feels dizzy with arousal, the chilli spicing his mouth, Sherlock’s hand moving up and down, twisting bursts of feeling out of him.

Sherlock selects the mille-feuille again and holds it front of his mouth. Mycroft feels his mouth water. He wants Sherlock’s hand on him to never stop. 

“You’re going to eat this, and then you’re going to come for me.” Sherlock doesn’t even phrase it as a question. They both know he will. 

Sherlock lingers, traces it over his lips, then pushes the mille-feuille into his mouth. It’s a large piece, an explosion of soft cream and pastry, of profound sweetness, Mycroft can barely breathe around it. Sherlock’s hand speeds up, he’s watching closely, Mycroft can feel his warm breaths on his face, hear the little hitches that mean that he’s enjoying this immensely as well, that he desperately wants to see him come. 

Sherlock’s hand reaches down, holds Mycroft’s balls and squeezes them. Mycroft’s hips slam forward, he feels his cheeks burning, he’s chewing, tasting, breathing heavily through his nose. He tenses his legs, fights the pull of orgasm coming. Sherlock must be able to feel it, must know, he feels so terribly aroused, he chews, tastes the caramel on his tongue, feels Sherlock’s pull on his erection.

“Come for me,” Sherlock says, voice breathless and so close, “brother dear.”

Mycroft does, tips over the edge, moves out of his chair into Sherlock’s hand, comes while spots bloom grey before his eyes, while Sherlock whispers, “Yes, yes, yes, oh Mycroft.” 

Then sinks back into the chair, heartbeat thudding heavily in his chest and his head. 

 

\---

 

Anthea sometimes looks at him when she thinks he doesn’t see. 

After checking in on Baker Street for the fifth time that night just to make sure Sherlock is safe. After spending too much money on Sherlock’s luxurious clothes that hug his body. After having his flat searched for drugs twice in one week because he can’t shed the nagging feeling of maybe. 

Mycroft thinks it’s pity, knowledge as well, she has been around long enough to suspect... But even if she did, she knows him well enough to never tell. 

He would destroy her in an instant. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock licks the semen off his hand, eyes dark and intent, then gets to his knees and kisses Mycroft’s inner thigh. 

Mycroft spasms briefly, nearly too sensitive to allow him to, too moved by the sight of it, Sherlock’s dark curls between his knees. Sherlock moves on and licks the small beads of liquid left on his flagging penis while Mycroft tries not to twist away. 

Mycroft remembers this. Sherlock’s fascination with after, with seeing exactly what he’s done. 

Sherlock pushes his hand underneath Mycroft’s shirt, touches his hip, the skin of his belly, then removes his shoes and socks, puts curious fingers on his thin ankles. 

Mycroft realises that Sherlock won’t see anything that he recognises now. For the first time in their lives, he’s skinnier than Sherlock is. His legs are sticks, knees knobbly, he’s become a garden of loose skin and bones. 

Yet he lets Sherlock unbutton his waistcoat, then his shirt and push it off his shoulders, pull his undershirt over his head. He stands up and lets him see. Lets Sherlock circle his hipbones with his warm, callused hands. Lick the small sweaty patch of skin at his neck. Suck wet and hot over the nubs of his spine, sprawl his hand over his loose stomach. Lets him tenderly seek out old scars and new lines in his face. Mycroft feels Sherlock’s ferocious interest in every bit of him, in the hows and the whys of his body, and he is reminded of that too, suddenly. What it feels like to be seen by him. To be treasured. 

The dark is coming, pulling the room into blacks and greys. Sherlock, with a look at him, turns on a lamp, then gets rid of his own clothes, and Mycroft watches him, sees his fingers on buttons, watches him slowly reveal himself. As soon as he’s naked, Sherlock’s erection bumps wetly to his leg, his breaths come intimate in his ear and Mycroft does what he’s been wanting to since Sherlock walked in, presses their chests together and then finally, finally, kisses him. 

Sherlock opens himself up and leans into him and it feels beyond overwhelming; that much bare skin, that much warmth. Mycroft holds him close, moves their bodies together in a familiar, heartbreaking beat, tries to etch every second of it in his memory. 

Sherlock looks ruined already, his erection straining against his belly, thinking of everything, Mycroft knows, seeing every single option and wanting them all. “Mycroft...” 

“Yes,” he says, surprised at the depth of his own voice, at the obvious emotion in it. He doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to and he’s not certain that Sherlock knows but it doesn’t matter. Mycroft feels a deep tug in his stomach as they move towards the bed together. Anything. He’ll do anything. 

Sherlock crawls over him, finds the lube in his nightstand, of course he does, then pushes his fingers inside slowly as he’s done a thousand times before. Mycroft lets him, relishes every second of being touched, the deep burn as Sherlock presses his erection inside of him, fingers digging into Mycroft’s sides. 

Mycroft reaches out to Sherlock’s hips, grabs his arse and pulls him in. He arches his back, takes him as deep as he can. He wants all of him, selfishly so. He feels Sherlock’s breaths on the side of his face, Sherlock over him, inside of him. He spreads his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders, greedily roams over his skin. Sherlock folds over him to kiss him again and they’re chest to chest, plastered together, Sherlock making small, short thrusts inside of him, flaring up bursts of feeling, Mycroft holding him close. 

Sherlock’s hands are unsure, he seems overwhelmed, still, so Mycroft holds him as tight as he can, puts a hand in his neck and kisses him open mouthed, chest bursting apart with feeling. Sherlock is shaking, or maybe it’s him, he can’t tell. 

He feels Sherlock’s thrusts speed up, become selfish and hard, Sherlock chokes out a cry, Mycroft’s legs are trembling with the tension of it and he whispers, “Yes, now.”

Sherlock gasps for air, buries his face in his neck and Mycroft feels every muscle of him go taunt, feels delirious at its meaning, and then Sherlock collapses on top of him, still shaking. 

Mycroft is crushed under Sherlock’s weight, feels the heat radiate between them in waves, every breath wetly stick their chests together. He can barely breathe. He tries to keep the feeling of this, exactly this, locked in his mind, but it’s already fleeting further and further with every second he has to analyse it. He wipes his face when he realises there are tears on his cheeks.

Sherlock eventually stirs, pushes himself up, and slips out of him. 

Mycroft watches him, feels the stretch on the edge of pain still, his own spent penis already filling out again somewhat. He won’t be able to come again for several hours, but his body doesn’t seem to care much. Sherlock bit him in his neck at some point, he feels the pulsing of his blood underneath his skin, and he presses his fingers to it. 

Sherlock is searching for his eyes, so Mycroft looks at him, briefly. Sherlock seems to take that as an invitation and leans in to kiss him, soft this time. 

Then lets him go. 

Sherlock leaves the bed and disappears into the bathroom. Mycroft sits up slowly and stands on weak legs. His body is a mess of sensations and aches. He’s shivering violently now, although he doesn’t feel cold. His mouth tastes like sugar and his own come. There’s a wet trail of lube running down his inner thigh. Spit dried on his neck. His lips are swollen, his hips bruised. He closes the curtains, collects clothing from piles around the desk, folds it all neatly, then gets dressed. He ignores looking at the half-eaten desserts although he can smell them. 

Mycroft wills himself together. He feels unsteady, ripped apart but knows he can’t show it, not now. 

Sherlock comes back after a while, takes his clothes. His gaze dances around the room, learns a dozen mundane secrets while he dresses, and eventually land on him. Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. Mycroft sees it anyhow. Something wondering, slightly afraid. He didn’t think they could have this again either. 

Mycroft doesn’t speak, doesn’t trust himself to. But as Sherlock is nearly at the door he gathers a breath and says, “Good luck next week, Sherlock.” 

And Sherlock turns, and nods briefly.

 

 

 

 

 


	7. The Final 1/2 (Sherlock, John)

  


 

 

The Signature Bake (Sherlock)

Sherlock has never been so nervous for something in his life. Not like this. His stomach hasn’t been able to handle food since Tuesday; he hasn’t slept more than an hour or so at a time since Wednesday. His hands tremble and feel cold to the touch. His heart beats hard and noticeable behind his breastbone. 

It’s the final weekend. 

Right in front of him is Jim, hair cut very short for the occasion, in a white tank top and jeans shorts, standing uncharacteristically still in front of his counter. Sherlock can see him smile thinly as he rolls his neck from side to side. 

To his left is John, standing with his legs lightly spread, shoulders low. His hand has moved down to his leg and squeezes the muscle there, but besides that he seems relaxed. Prepared for battle. 

The sun is out in full force today, a bright blue sky without a single cloud. They’re in high summer and the marquee is heating up quickly. Sherlock had prepared for the possibility of a warm day, calculated the effect it might have on things like chocolate, meringue, the proving of dough and so forth, but standing here now he thinks that he might have underestimated the combined effect of the added heat from the ovens and the sun shining through plastic. It’s ten twenty-nine in the morning and already the air feels thick and heavy inside the tent. 

John looks over and smiles briefly, his eyes warm. 

Sherlock nods back. They’ve discussed nerves, although the actual subject of the final hasn’t come up much. They were on the phone until two this morning. When John insisted on sleeping, Sherlock kept the line open and listened to him breathe.

Lestrade sets up to speak for the camera. “Hello finalists, and welcome back to the tent for the seventh and final week of The Great British Bake Off.” 

Mrs. Hudson smiles a comforting smile at the three of them. “For this last signature challenge, we’re going to ask you to make savoury canapés. We’d like three types, twelve of each. These little canapés should be tantalising to the taste buds and visually very enticing, and you’ll have two and a half hours to make them in.” 

Similar to last week’s petit fours, the finish on these canapés will have to be absolutely perfect. There are a lot of elements involved in making them, and Sherlock has a four page hand-written list with everything he needs to do, spaced out in a way so that he will be able to use both hands at once whenever possible. He has spent hundreds of pounds and dozens of hours on this in the last week alone, has prepared and timed what he will do to the point of ridiculousness. 

“Get ready...” 

Sherlock takes his freshly pressed apron. He puts the string over his head, ties the knot and smoothes it down over his front, hands slightly sweaty. 

“...set...”

He looks to his side. John’s profile is a soothing presence as always, an anchor to hold on to.

“...and bake!” 

 

\---

 

Sherlock loves to dance, he always has. 

When he’s little he slides across the living room floor on socked feet, pirouettes around the kitchen isle and practises complicated jumps in the back garden. 

Later he takes ballet, then ballroom dance, holds on to young girls’ backs in perfect form, right hand just touching the line of their bra strap, the other clasped around theirs, and leads them across the dance floor, light on his feet. None of the girls like him much and he can’t stand them either, but he’s a sought-after partner anyway because he’s good. 

Mycroft has a bad sense of rhythm and an acute sense of shame so he won’t be caught dead dancing, let alone in public. But sometimes Sherlock locks the door and makes him anyway. Because no matter how innocent the moves, it always makes Mycroft blush to be held like that, and swayed to the music. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock turns the oven on, puts water on, gets butter from the fridge, and starts making filo pastry for his samosas. He squeezes a lemon with one hand, and sifts flour with the other. Takes hot water, pours the flour in, a bit of raki, olive oil, lemon juice, and green tea powder as a natural food colouring. 

He kneads the dough, and rolls it out with a special, long rolling pin. The final product should be thinner than a sheet of paper, and he’s been practising for several hours a day to get this technique just right. 

When that goes into the fridge, it’s immediately on to the next dough, this time for the steamed buns. He mixes lukewarm water and sugar in a mixing bowl, adds yeast, sifts flour with his left hand and adds it, kneads that for several minutes, then covers it and sets it aside on the counter to rest. He makes a note of the heat too, it’s going to rise much quicker today than it ever has in 221b. 

Next is making shortcrust pastry for the tartlets. Sherlock tries to work as quickly as he can, but this is a tall order for any of them. 

He’s sweating. 

He checks the oven, gets it up to temperature for later, then looks at the clock. Still on schedule. Good. He finds his lotus roots, peels them, cuts them into thin ‘flower petals’ and leaves them to soak in vinegar. Then sautés garlic, spinach, adds fresh mint leaves, and sets that aside. It’s impossible to keep track of what Jim and John are doing exactly, Jim has a Welsh Cheddar, several pints of ale, and beetroot on his counter. John has salmon, cauliflower, walnuts, and a blue, sharp-smelling Stilton. 

As expected, the yeasted dough is rising too much too fast today, so Sherlock switches some of his steps around and starts on his chicken straight away. 

Time runs through his hands. The air is full of unfamiliar smells for the Bake Off tent: vegetables and meats, fish and spices. Sherlock’s at step twenty-three when John walks by to get a frying pan and smiles quickly. Sherlock isn’t sure whether he smiled back, he might have forgotten to. 

With nineteen minutes to go, he takes his crab meat from the fridge, (he killed several in his kitchen this morning- apparently they’re not allowed to show things like that on camera, annoying), spoons it onto the green buttered layers of filo pastry, and puts that into the oven. Then it’s on to the steamed buns: they are big, too big? Sherlock decorates them quickly with the pickled lotus root, and focuses on making them look delicate. 

To finish, the tartlets need quail eggs on top. He breaks the small eggs carefully, poaches them individually in little moulds so that they will look even, presses the sautéed spinach and mint into the shortcrust tartlets, grates Parmesan over it, and then lowers the poached quail eggs in carefully with a spoon, and sprinkles on a little salt. Done.

The samosas are about ready, and they get a small touch of wasabi straight out of the oven.

With two minutes to go, Sherlock lines his canapés up geometrically using a ruler. He timed himself meticulously at home, but it’s still a relief to be finishing within parameters. One minute, he wipes any spills from between the little savoury tarts with a tea towel, adjust a single lotus root flower petal, and then, “That’s it bakers, stop touching your canapés!” 

Sherlock leans back, his shirt sticking to his upper body, the hair on his neck wet with sweat, and looks around. The others don’t look much better than he feels. Jim is bright red in the face, and John has immediately sunk down onto his chair and is holding a cold bottle of water to his forehead. Even the cameramen and production people are all fanning themselves with notes. 

But they all finished in time. John has scones, macaroons, and puffs lined up at the end of his counter. Jim has a flat kind of bun, thin, delicate-looking biscuits, and little tarts. 

They look amazing.

 

\---

 

When Sherlock is older he goes to clubs, revels in the heavy beat of the music vibrating in his chest and the press of people around him. Sober he couldn’t stand it, but high he dances throughout the night, lets the hours glide over his body like water. And comes out the other end muscles pleasantly sore, head still ringing with the noise. 

Mycroft makes him shower before he’s allowed into his bed like that, smelling of cigarettes and dried sweat, but Sherlock doesn’t listen and comes to him straight from dancing at dawn, hair wild and clothes rumpled, and licks a long stripe over his belly before sucking his cock to wake him up. 

He’s always wanted the physical, to move his body into beauty. He’s born for it. 

 

\---

 

It must be nearing thirty degrees in the tent by now. Sherlock accepts a cold bottle of water from one of the assistants, and drinks from it greedily. He looks at his canapés. How long will they stay good in this temperature? 

Lestrade announces, “Right, everyone, I know it’s hot as hell in here...” a little murmur of assent goes up, “...but we have no choice but to get to these as soon as possible, so we’re going to push through and go straight to the judging, okay? We’ll have a long lunch after, and then come back for the technical when it’s cooled down a bit. Hopefully.” He laughs grimly. 

Jim groans, dramatically pours some water down his shirt and flaps it back and forth. 

John is holding his hands over his face, but still Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade go to him first. “So, John.” 

“Yeah?” John looks up and smiles, then pushes himself up by means of the counter to stand during their judging. He looks shattered. Frankly, they all do, Sherlock isn’t sure that this is going to make for the best TV. Mrs. Hudson’s mascara is running, and Lestrade is sweating obvious dark patches into his shirt.

“You’ve got a varied presentation here,” Lestrade says, cautiously optimistic-sounding.

John’s cauliflower cheese scones look the best, Sherlock thinks. John used fresh lettuce and it makes them look appropriate for the weather, light and fresh. 

Mrs. Hudson tastes one. “Hmmm, you’ve got the cream coming through from the cauliflower, the freshness from the lettuce, that scone structure from underneath, very nice, John.”

Next are his Stilton and walnut macaroons. “You’re the only one that hadn’t done macaroons yet, so I think it’s a very smart idea, showing it to us now.” Lestrade looks at John appraisingly. Sherlock agrees. It’s good of him to show that he can do it. And savoury as well, which is really where John tends to shine. “One thing though, I don’t like the volume of cheese, I think you sliced it too thick.” 

“Or maybe you could have melted it?” Mrs. Hudson suggests.

“Well, if you wait ten more minutes...” John suggests. 

Lestrade laughs. “Yeah, in this weather, that’ll do it.” 

And last are John’s beetroot and salmon puffs. “What’s this, crème fresh?” 

“Horseradish crème fresh, yeah.” 

“Hmm, the bake looks good, but the taste I’m not finding memorable?” Mrs. Hudson asks Lestrade. 

Lestrade tries, and says “Yes, each one has got to have character, and this one for me does not.” John nods tentatively. Sherlock finds himself tense just listening in. Every single one of them _has_ to be good. “So in all... I think the uniformity could use some work, since all of them haven’t got the wow factor. But good work though, solid.” 

“Yes, especially the first ones, the scones, were amazing, John.” Mrs. Hudson smiles. “Well done.” 

John sits back, and sighs. Sherlock nods at him nervously. 

 

They go on to Jim next. “First of all, this collection looks so professional.” 

It does. Jim, as always, is meticulous in his presentation, no canapé looks different from its neighbour, they could just as well have been made mechanically instead of by hand. He’s wrung the juice out of pulverised beetroot, let it stiffen in the fridge, and put it on his poppy seed biscuits. It looks vaguely like congealed blood, Sherlock thinks. “What a beautiful dark colour!”

Lestrade nods, “It’s a clever technique, and I do like the flavour, although it dissipates quite quick.” 

Next are his Welsh rarebit tartlets, made with Welsh Cheddar and ale. “Well, now you’re in your comfort zone, aren’t you Jim?” Mrs. Hudson smiles. “An old recipe, presented in a modern way, you’re always very good at this.” 

“Hm, the pastry’s crisp.” Lestrade says, to business as always, “Nice finish.” Then he bites into it, swallows, and scrapes his throat, “Wow, there’s some alcohol in that! I can taste the Cheddar, but barely, everything is dominated by the ale, so try and hold back next time, yeah?” Jim shakes his head, obviously irritated. 

Mrs. Hudson tries and nods, “Oh dear! Yes, that is quite strong.” She takes a second bite anyway. 

Last are Jim’s buns with goat’s cheese and caramelised onion. “They’re quite flat, not as domed as you’d expect them to be, not as lively.” Lestrade still sounds put out about the ale, Sherlock thinks. Out of the two of them Mrs. Hudson is the fond drinker, but he suspects that Lestrade doesn’t mind a pint either. Just not in his canapés, apparently. 

Mrs. Hudson rescues Jim, “But the onion is delicious, really crispy finish on the bake as well.” Jim flashes her a smile. “So great presentation and attention to detail, but perhaps a bit lacking in consistency when it comes to the flavours?” She looks at Lestrade. 

He nods. “I agree.”

 

Then they -finally- come over to Sherlock’s counter. 

“They look marvellous, dear!” Mrs. Hudson says. Sherlock serves them his spinach, Parmesan and quail egg tartlets immediately. They’ve been sitting for quite a while by now, so hopefully the eggs are still as they should be. 

Lestrade accepts one and inspects it closely. “The pastry is beautifully cooked, lovely and thin.” He tastes, chews slowly. “It needs just a little more seasoning for me, more salt?” Sherlock was purposely sparse with it, mindful of Lestrade’s conventional palate. Typical. 

“Hmm, not bad though,” Mrs. Hudson says, “Not bad at all, I can taste the mint in your spinach, the garlic, too, it’s lovely with the quail egg, attractive to look at as well.” 

Then it’s on to his crab and wasabi samosas. “Oh, they’re green!” Mrs. Hudson says. “I think these are scrummy, the crab is lovely, you’ve kept the texture just right.” 

Lestrade agrees, “The filo pastry is crisp as well, such thin layers, you did this by hand?” Sherlock nods. “Impressive.”

And last are his Chinese steamed buns with chicken and lotus root served on top. They have risen too much, even after he’s made them smaller than he thought was wise. 

“You could have done two thirds the size of that.” Lestrade notes. 

It’s true. Sherlock nods tersely and curses himself for not baking in front of a heater as soon as he knew this weekend’s forecast. He considered it, but then deemed it unnecessary. It’s unlikely that he could have gotten Baker Street’s kitchen up to these temperatures, but he could have tried. 

“I think the consistency of the bread to filling is perfect though.” Mrs. Hudson says. “The spices are lovely as well, but maybe a bit too much here, I can feel them tingling on my tongue.”

It’s Chinese chicken. It’s supposed to be spiced, otherwise the bun by itself is just plain. 

“Yeah, that’s too much for me.” Lestrade says and takes a sip of his water. “So in all... I think you’ve thought them through well, you’ve shown a real range in techniques here. I know you’ve started to consider things like texture, Sherlock, I can really see that, but, and this is consistent for you, you need to work on the intensity of your flavours.” 

“But lovely presentation.” Mrs. Hudson adds. 

Sherlock nods dully. 

“Now,” Lestrade looks around, “Time for lunch, yeah?” 

 

\---

 

Sherlock hasn’t danced in years. 

There’s no occasion for ballroom dancing these days, and certainly not for ballet. He has no desire to ever step foot inside a club again but it’s still there, at times. When he plays violin, and his feet start moving through the room on their own accord. When he gravitates around a dead body at a crime scene, follows his senses where they’ll lead. 

When he’s alone in the kitchen, turns and spins, puts a touch here, a bit there. Chops and slices, spreads and mixes, adjusts his footwork accordingly. A choreography of baking. 

 

\---

 

The cameras turn off, and everyone gets up. It’s well past time for a break. An assistant is going around piling the canapés onto trays so that they won’t go to waste and everyone can have some at lunch. Sherlock takes his cool box and starts selecting his nicest ones. One of each? He decides on two, and carefully lowers them onto a plate. Mycroft will eat them, he knows. It makes him feel something complicated just thinking about it. Mycroft’s skin, against his hands. His face. 

Jim walks over, and leans on Sherlock’s counter. “People can be so subjective about taste, don’t you think?” He seems annoyed at not having gotten the best review. Actually, Sherlock had prepared himself for the possibility of Jim doing better than him, but he hasn’t, not really. 

Sherlock looks at John. He’s waiting for him to be done picking out things for Mycroft so they can go to lunch together. John’s standing there, in pain most likely, but patient, calm. John is a soldier. John went to _war_ , John is a million times better than Jim ever could be. Sherlock selects his final canapé. “Go away.”

“Yes, why would you even talk to me, with John and...” Jim looks at the cool box on Sherlock’s counter suggestively. “Hungry, is he? Your brother.” 

Sherlock pauses. 

“Should have called, Sherlock!” Jim laughs. Then his voice turns serious. “Meet me by the back gates at three. You, too, John. Let’s have a chat, the three of us.” He grins, and stalks out of the tent. 

John comes closer, lowers his voice and says, “Sherlock! Was that... does he _know_?” 

“Unlikely.” Sherlock says. But not impossible. Sherlock closes the cool box, and hands it off to the same assistant as before, one of Mycroft’s people. He looks at her sharply, but she seems unconcerned. 

What _could_ Jim know? Sherlock had expected something from him this weekend, some vague threats perhaps, or a stab at John. He just hadn’t foreseen it being about Mycroft. Sherlock glances at the ceiling briefly. He gets his phone from the collection up front, and yes, it buzzes in his hand immediately. Text message. _No surveillance that far back. M.H._

He doesn’t say ‘be careful’, but Sherlock can read between the lines. What is Jim planning, wanting to meet like that? To intimidate them probably, blackmail? Like he did to Soo Lin?

It’s probably best not to seem too disturbed by it for now. “Let’s go.” Sherlock starts walking outside and John follows him into the blazing sun, cane crunching on the gravel. “I believe that there might be a selection of slowly melting canapés.” He looks at John, grins. “And people too, for that matter.” 

John smiles briefly. 

Walking outside is like trying to move inside an oven at this point, even in the shade. There’s a light breeze, but only barely. Sherlock never seriously considered heatstroke as something that would play into the final but it’s starting to look like it might, some of the cameramen were looking rather unsteady near the end there and he’s actually feeling somewhat lightheaded himself. That technical better not involve chocolate or it’s going to be a disaster.

John tilts his head that way when he wants to ask a question but he isn’t sure whether he can. He speaks quietly. “Sherlock, it is just Mycroft and me, right?”

Sherlock frowns, “Who else would there be?” He’s never wanted anyone else. Or well, when he was high. He doesn’t even remember most of that. 

John shakes his head, “No, it’s just... Jim. He does have a point.” He looks up. “You could do better.”

Sherlock feels offended. Mycroft is much too thin now, yes, but he will get heavier thighs, a rounded out stomach. He will be whole again. It will take months, probably, maybe years, but he can make it happen again. And John... He looks at him. Oh, he was talking about himself? Odd. “John, you are...”

“Unemployed. A cripple.” John lifts his cane in demonstration. 

“...amazing.” 

John blinks in surprise, then laughs awkwardly, “Well, as long as you think so.” But his eyes say that he appreciates it none the less. 

“I do.” Sherlock means it. He loves John’s scar, his hands. The lines in his face when he laughs. The scent of him, the taste, the way he is always warm. John is glorious. Sherlock glances at him, and wonders if he should say something else. What is it that people say? 

But John takes a breath. “So, we should then? Meet Jim like he said?” 

_We_. Sherlock feels another flash of fondness at that. “Yes.” He wants to know what Jim’s game is. 

John nods, but looks as if he’s not quite convinced it’s a good idea. 

They’ve put out chairs and tables in the shade of the trees today, but only some smokers are sitting outside, and it’s a relief to step into the cool dining hall. Sherlock sits down where John wants to, leans back in his chair, grabs another bottle of water and drinks slowly. What is Jim’s plan?

Sherlock’s aware that John tries his canapés at one point and says they’re great. 

That John talks with Lestrade and laughs about something. That Mrs. Hudson comes by and asks if he’s feeling all right, and that John puts his hand on his leg under the table and squeezes it reassuringly when he doesn’t answer, but it hardly registers. 

_“Hungry, is he? Your brother.”_

 

\---

 

Sometimes Sherlock will put on a slow waltz, hold up his arms, shoulders straight, and dance himself through the room. Mycroft catches him at it once, just opens the door, raises an eyebrow and stands there, waiting impatiently while Sherlock stubbornly dances on in perfect form, not giving him the credit of even disturbing him. 

But now, Sherlock thinks, the next time he does, he’ll be dancing with John. John’s sturdy shoulders under his hands, his warm body against his. Even if John can’t dance he’ll teach him. Or if he’s alone, he’ll reach out a hand and ask Mycroft. 

He already knows he’ll blush again. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock gets up from the table at quarter to three, and John follows. Sherlock thinks about telling him not to bother, it is quite a walk and John needs to save his leg for baking, but he doesn’t. John won’t like it, and... _we_. If John wants to come along he can. 

It’s calm in the pressing afternoon heat with most of the crew hiding inside. The back gate is at the very end of the castle grounds, and Sherlock has only been this far out once on week one, looking for wildflowers. Most of them are gone now, or different kinds have taken their place. 

Sherlock fingers his phone in his pocket, selects Mycroft’s name, then presses call. He wavered on it during lunch, but a little caution might be a good idea. Plus, Mycroft will appreciate it. He’s probably worrying about this, too. 

Jim is already waiting in the distance, leaning against a tree, cutting a silly figure in his top and short jeans shorts. He couldn’t look less intimidating if he tried. And that’s just it, Sherlock thinks, remembering his gaze. The promise of hurt, even then. Jim’s been trying all along. 

They walk up to him side by side, John and him. 

“Sherlock, so good of you to come.” 

“Jim.” Sherlock still can’t figure him out completely. What could be in this for him, really? Why bother? 

“So, your brother...” Jim lets a silence fall. He looks between Sherlock and John, and says, “John, do you know that Sherlock went to his hotel room last week, gave him some petit fours and then _fucked_ him?” 

Sherlock has never been more grateful for John’s solid nerves. The muscles in John’s jaw are working, but he doesn’t say a word, instead eyes Jim steadily. 

Sherlock doesn’t rise to the bait either, although it disturbs him more than he thought it would, hearing Jim say that. “Who are you, really?” 

Jim smiles, “Oh, just someone who specialises in IT. And I love baking. Everyone needs a hobby, don’t you think?”

“Is this how you pressured Soo Lin?” John looks up in surprise at the mention of her. Sherlock never told John, he didn’t think it would feature into anything, not like this. But it wasn’t just the Black Lotus, it can’t have been. Too well-timed, all those walks with Jim.

“Ah, yes, they might have been tipped off about where she was. Oops! But oh,” Jim laughs, “her secret wasn’t nearly as juicy as yours, Sherlock.” His face turns intense. “Kudos for creativity, really, _incest_ , so rare these days. I appreciate it, I do.” 

Sherlock tries to keep his response to a minimum. So Jim figured it out somehow, had him followed maybe. It’s blackmail worthy, sure, but hardly earth-shattering. 

“It’s impressive what they can get with telephoto lenses these days. Such clear pictures.” Jim grins. “And all that food, _feeding_ him, how does that work, because I have to say, I’m intrigued.”

“What do you want?” John’s voice sounds stiff.

“Yes, what do I want, let’s see... NOT YOU!” Jim yells, “So arrogant, the both of you! See, I thought you might be interesting, Sherlock, but... no. You’re really not, are you?” He counts off on his fingers, “Baking, sex with John, baking, sex with your brother... Do you do anything else? Ever?” He laughs. “So what does Jim want, well first I’m going to win tomorrow, obviously.” 

“Or else?” Sherlock asks. 

“Or else I’ll tell. Don’t be an idiot, Sherlock.” Jim rolls his eyes. “I love newspapers, don’t you? So rarely they get to print the truth. And there’s the internet, or, oh, the personal touch. Your brother’s precious reputation, his career, and what would Mummy say, I wonder, should I call her right now? I do have her number, it’s not like it was hard to find.”

“You wouldn’t,” Sherlock says. But he might. God, this guy is insane. 

“Oh, not like this, no. First you’ll have to beg John here not to win, for you and your brother’s sake.” Jim eyes John consideringly, then looks back at Sherlock. “Do you think he will, Sherlock? Do you think he loves you enough for that?”

John’s fingers are balled into fists. Sherlock knows what the Bake Off means to John. He’s never asking him to lose and Jim is an idiot if he thinks he will. “And that’s it?”

“Oh no. After that I’d like a chat with the only one of you who matters. The one who has, let’s say, professional value.”

Mycroft. Of course. 

“Anyway... “ Jim checks his watch. “Nearly time for the technical. Think it over, will you, boys?” He grins, and looks at Sherlock’s pocket, ”That means you too, MYCROFT!” Sherlock flinches. Fuck. 

Jim pops a piece of gum into his mouth, waves, and walks away chewing. “Laters!”

John breathes out harshly. Sherlock watches Jim go, and then takes his phone out of his pocket. “I take it you heard that?”

Mycroft sighs on the other side of the line. “Loud and clear.” Sherlock can imagine his expression perfectly. Long fingers pinching his forehead. Mouth turned down in distaste. 

“You had him on the phone? You had him on the phone the whole time?” John asks. 

“It seemed prudent.” Mycroft doesn’t say anything else, so Sherlock ends the call. Funny, he’s never been blackmailed before. Not like this anyway. He wonders if Mycroft has? Has he ever paid people off to keep quiet? Eliminated them? The thought is strangely compelling. 

“What are we going to do?” John’s voice sounds tight with worry. “Cause I don’t think he was kidding, Sherlock.” He points at where Jim has disappeared between the trees. “He will do it. Destroy you. Both of you.” 

Mycroft probably has a dozen contingency plans in place for an occasion just like this. He’ll block their parent’s phone line. He’ll get the pictures, if there really are any. And Jim was right, they have to be back in the Bake Off tent in a couple minutes. Sherlock looks at John. Is he angry? He’s really been taking this remarkably well, considering. “John...” 

But John shakes his head, “It’s fine, it’s... I mean, I’m not... I was never going to win, right?” He smiles a little weary. 

What? Surely he can’t actually think that Jim will get away with this? Sherlock frowns, “John, Jim doesn’t matter.” _Only you do._ “Ignore him, focus, bake the best you can.” 

John seems uncertain. “Yes, okay, but what about...” 

“It’s fine, don’t think about it.” They don’t have a lot of time so Sherlock moves forward, intending to walk to the tent, but John stops him. Then pulls him close and wraps his arms around him, and it takes Sherlock a second to recognise that John is hugging him. Does he think he’s upset? Or is he reassuring himself? It feels good though, to hold him. John’s face is pressed to his shoulder. It’s comforting, even. John’s warm puffs of breath against his neck. His hair tickling his cheek. The strength of his arms around him. Sherlock revels in it, for a second, then lets go. 

It’s time for baking.

 

\---

 

The Technical Challenge (John)

They walk into the tent together to the annoyed looks of most of the sweaty crew. They’re late. 

Jim is already there, and despite Sherlock’s assurance, John feels nauseous with anger just looking at him. Who does he think he is, doing this? Playing with people’s lives like this? He’s going to believe Sherlock that it somehow will be fine, for now, but if he has to... John looks at Jim. There’s plenty he could do even with a bad leg. 

John quickly washes his hands and puts his apron on. 

The last technical. The last one they couldn’t prepare for. There are ingredients standing on his counter, covered in a red and white checkered cloth, and a recipe lying face-down as usual. He almost doesn’t care. 

Jim is waiting patiently, looking between the two of them with more glee than John thinks is necessary. Sherlock is ignoring him and tying his apron in the back. John knows Sherlock has been pushing himself beyond his limits, and god, they all have, preparing for this final. He doesn’t need this on top of everything else. Neither of them do. 

“Everybody ready?” Lestrade asks. They nod, and the cameras turn on. 

“By now you’ve all proven that you can bake. So today we are asking you to show your skills in construction, assembly, and decoration. For our last technical challenge, we’re asking you to make, from scratch... A croquembouche.” 

Mrs Hudson steps in, smiling, “You have three hours, so on your marks, get set, and bake!” 

A croquembouche. John turns his recipe over. He knows how to make choux pastry, how to make crème patissier, how to make caramel and spun sugar, the only real difficulty is going to be the size of it. The first instruction is: “Make enough choux pastry for a hundred and eight buns.” And an entire pan of caramel, this thing is going to be huge. There’s no mould either, they’re expected to construct it by hand. In three hours. John tries to do the math in his head, but he comes up short. 

Right. There’s nothing to it, he has to get started, so he turns on the oven, chooses the largest pan they have, fills it with water and puts it on the heat. The last time he made choux pastry he had about enough for twenty-something buns, so he needs to make five times that amount. John weighs butter and flour, melts the butter into the water and stirs the flour in until it’s a giant glob of paste. The paste needs to be cooled, normally he would just put the pan aside somewhere and wait for a while, but today he walks it to the freezer instead. No time to be a perfectionist, it’s go big or go home, and he can see Jim and Sherlock do the same. 

There were moments this week were he almost missed his life before this, as hazy as it is at this point. Time to sit down and have a cup of tea, read the paper, but there is not a moment that goes by where he’s not busy with the Bake Off. He had to walk to the shop twice a day for ingredients, because he couldn’t carry it all anymore one-handed. Bags of flour, eggs, cheese, vegetables, chocolate, the bills are staggering but if he wants a chance in hell of winning he _has_ to practise. 

As a result Harry and him have been eating savoury canapés and cake for every meal, every day. Harry’s taken whole stacks of them to her job, and John finally bit the bullet and knocked on all of their neighbours’ doors and offered them some. On top of that it’s been getting progressively hotter and more humid throughout the week, making their tiny flat feel even more cramped and stuffy than it already is. John bought an electric fan, put that in the kitchen as well, and then short circuited the wiring by having it, the oven, the stove and a mixer on at the same time. 

To be honest, the only thing keeping him sane throughout this has been Sherlock. Having him on the phone for hours a day, getting texts in between, or just thinking of him. Sherlock, crazy, obsessed, wonderful Sherlock. 

John glances at him. He looks pale, but he’s making good time. 

What are they going to do? 

 

\---

 

John kills two people in Afghanistan that he knows of. With his gun, anyway. More die under his hands of course, slip away, too far gone to help. Some gurgle blood at him, eyes open wide, while his hands are frantically trying to put their insides back in. Some are quiet besides the rasping breaths, while he tells them it will be alright, and takes out the morphine. 

If you discount good intentions, war or medicine, John would be a serial killer.

And he’s perfectly fine with that. 

 

\---

 

John gets eggs, separates the egg yolks, gets the paste out of the freezer and mixes them in a little at a time until it’s the right consistency, then scoops it into a piping bag. He pipes the dough onto the first baking sheet, measures it out for thirty-six buns, then wets his finger, and gently presses on each piped ball of choux pastry. It’s supposed to give them a crisper top. 

He puts them into the oven, then starts on his crème patisserie. He makes an effort not to look at Jim. Sherlock has just opened his oven to check on the moisture, producing a giant cloud of steam. 

Crème patisserie needs to be cooled as quickly as possible when made, so John prepares a bowl of ice water to lower it in to, and once it’s done takes out the first batch of profiteroles. Normally he’d turn the oven off, pierce them to let out steam, and then put them back in for a couple minutes because the warm air dries out the middle. But with three batches to make... He thinks it’s better to just to make one batch after the other and let them dry out on his counter. 

Sherlock’s first batch of profiteroles is finished as well, he did put them back in and they’re looking crisp, slightly darker than John’s own. Sherlock himself is not looking well at all, though. 

John adjusts the heat on his oven, and starts on his caramel. 

And then suddenly there’s a clatter, and a muted thump. John looks over, thinking Sherlock dropped something. But he can’t see him anymore. John gets over there without knowing he moved. Sherlock is lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. “Sherlock!” John sinks to his knees and rolls him over.

John can feel the atmosphere shift in the tent, people rushing to get close, Jim included, a hush of tension, someone asking whether they need to call an ambulance, but all of his attention is on Sherlock. He’s breathing shallowly. Sherlock’s hand feels oddly cool and clammy. John checks his pulse. It’s racing. John taps his cheek lightly. “Sherlock? Can you hear me?” 

He looks around. There’s plenty of production people around, as well as, annoyingly, a cameraman filming it all. “You! Elevate his legs. Yes, bend them like that. You, get me a wet, cold towel.” 

They all obey him immediately. John takes the wet towel, opens the top buttons of Sherlock’s shirt and presses it to Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock’s eyelashes flutter. “Sherlock? Can you hear me?” 

Sherlock’s eyes open, then slowly focus. “John?” 

John feels a rush of relief. He just passed out, that’s all. Hardly surprising, really, it’s bloody hot in the tent, Sherlock has been under a lot of stress, baking and then Jim, never mind that he hasn’t slept in days, or, “How long has it been since you’ve eaten anything?”

Sherlock’s face rolls to the side again. John taps his cheek, “Sherlock!” 

John looks at one of the people hovering around, “Get a drink, something cold and sugary?” She nods and runs off. 

Sherlock’s eyes focus back on him again slowly, and then look around. He seems almost insulted. “Why am I on the ground?” 

“You fainted.” John says, dryly.

The assistant comes back with a can of Coke, so John holds it against Sherlock’s forehead, then to his wrists, and checks his pulse again. Sherlock’s breathing in and out slowly through his nose. He must be feeling truly bad to let him do this, John thinks. Suddenly he looks up, “My caramel.”

He’s right, John can smell it, too. He looks up at one of the assistants, “Take it off the heat?” 

“I can’t, I’m not allowed to touch anything related to his bake, unless that’s a forfeit?” 

“No!” Sherlock says at the same time as John’s, “I’ll do it.” He pushes himself up on his knees, then holds on to Sherlock’s counter and pulls himself up in an awkward move. Sherlock’s caramel is indeed burning and beyond rescue, so he pulls it off the heat and puts the whole pan in the sink to be dealt with later. 

He looks into Sherlock’s oven as well. “Your profiteroles are fine for now, stay down, drink your Coke, I’ll take care of it.” John doesn’t give Sherlock time to argue, goes over to his own counter, takes his caramel off the heat as well, then returns. He turns Sherlock’s oven off, takes his profiteroles out, and skewers them quickly. John isn’t really sure what the rules are and whether he’s even allowed to help like this, but no one stops him. 

Sherlock looks as white as a sheet still. He has worked himself into a half-sitting position though, head leaning against his counter. John looks at him, “Hey, sip your drink, I’m serious.” Sherlock’s hands tremble and it takes him a couple tries to open the can.

John sticks Sherlock’s profiteroles back into the oven, walks to his own oven and pulls his out, replaces them with the third tray, skewers them, walks back and takes Sherlock’s out, then warms his oven again for his next batch. It’s complicated and he suspects that he’s not really doing this to Sherlock’s high standards, but it’s this or nothing, and Sherlock doesn’t comment. 

John puts another pan on the heat as well, and pours in sugar for a new try at caramel. Then checks the oven, puts Sherlock’s third batch in, and sinks back down to Sherlock’s level to take his pulse. Still racing, although not as bad as before. He’s barely touched his drink. “You’re not getting up until you’ve drunk that whole thing, you need the sugar.” 

“Yes, doctor,” Sherlock says sarcastically. But he does take a sip. John can’t help a bit of a smile. He sounds like himself again, at least. 

John’s aware of the cameras filming his every move and how this looks, but he doesn’t care, he touches the side of Sherlock’s face briefly, tenderly. Sherlock lets him. 

 

\---

 

John knows that Harry has a hard time looking at him those first few weeks after he’s home from the hospital, because he reminds her of Mum. The plastic chair in the shower. The sight of his crutches, leaning against the sofa. The smell of hospital that lingers on his clothes after physical therapy. 

And he can’t look at her, either, without feeling ashamed. 

If he could, he would leave and go back to war in an instant. Because it’s not over. Because there are still people, good people, people he loves and cares about, fighting. In danger, every single day. And he left them. 

He even considers going back like this, too. He can’t hide the cane, or the pain, but maybe someone, somewhere will be desperate enough to give him a shot. John knows it’s folly, he’s stiff and slow, now. But the only dreams he can stand waking up from are the ones where he reenlists. 

 

\---

 

Jim is already well ahead of both of them, building his tower with great precision. 

John gets his crème patisserie from the fridge, then Sherlock’s as well, and, after a couple minutes, helps Sherlock up into a chair so he can start piping. With forty-two minutes to go, it’s going to be close for both of them. 

The good thing about the hot weather is that his caramel hasn’t stiffened up too much yet, but the bad thing is that it won’t, not until it’s in the fridge, and John’s not sure that here’s going to be time left for that. 

Ten minutes later Sherlock is mechanically and quickly filling profiteroles and at John’s urging, eating some, too, and John’s first two batches are filled, albeit little sloppily. John takes the base plate they provided for the tower, and tries to get an idea of how to do this. A real croquembouche is hollow inside. So is the one that Jim is constructing, so right, a circle on the bottom then, and slowly work inwards as it goes up? John dips his first choux bun into the caramel, and places it onto the plate. The caramel is still surprisingly hot on his fingers. 

He has two layers done by the time his last batch of profiteroles come out, skewers them so that they can dry out, and works on quickly while keeping an eye on Sherlock. He is looking a lot steadier now, standing up again and working with care, as always. 

John only finishes piping his last batch with twelve minutes left on the clock, and builds his tower as well as he can after that but there’s little grace or planning involved, and frankly it looks like it. Once he’s at the top he has five choux buns left, so he places them around the base. There’s no time to refrigerate it at all, and with two minutes to go it still needs to be decorated with spun sugar. John tries, flicks liquid caramel over a knife quickly and gets some strands to wrap around it, although they’re not nearly as fine and as delicate as he’d like, but at least it shows that he’s aware that they need to be on there. 

And then, “Three,” okay, John grabs some powdered sugar and spreads that over the tower as well. “Two,” does it look like it’s going to fall over? God, he hopes not. “One, and that’s it, stop touching your croquembouches!”

John steps back. It’s hardly his best work. If possible it’s even worse than his gingerbread Coliseum was. 

But Sherlock didn’t finish at all. He obviously couldn’t bring himself to just throw something together; he has a much neater beginning of a tower, about a third of the way done, with beautifully spun sugar woven around it, and then a pile of loose buns. He’s looking down at his hands, obviously defeated. 

Jim looks over at them, and grins. “Aw, Sherlock... Was it all a bit too stressful for you?” 

And John suppresses the urge to pummel Jim in the face. Or kiss Sherlock until he smiles again. Instead he brings his tower up to the judging table, and Sherlock does the same. 

Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade walk in, but she comes over to Sherlock straight away. “Sherlock, dear, I heard, are you alright?” 

“Fine,” he says, but he still doesn’t look it, John thinks. 

They start by trying Jim’s, although they don’t know that. Or they aren’t supposed to, John thinks, really it’s fairly obvious. It’s a beautiful, high and streamlined tower, even the edges are sculpted caramel. He wins by a mile. John gets second, simply because Sherlock didn’t finish, he knows. Sherlock accepts third place looking as if he’s barely listening.

Once they’re finished Sherlock immediately gets up, grabs his phone and checks his messages while he walks outside. John trails behind him. 

There’s a black car waiting for them in the parking lot. 

 

\---

 

And the bad dreams... 

John dreams cruel, gory nightmares where he saws his own leg off in the middle of his kitchen, and uses a blowtorch to cauterise the wound. Dreams where he reaches inside his own chest and shoulder and pulls out the nerves with his teeth, bites them in two, so that it stops hurting. Dreams where he joins Al-Qaeda, because at least they’d let him fight. 

Dreams where his friends line up in a firing squad because he deserted them. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock gets into the back seat of the car without question, so John does as well, and they start driving immediately. John eyes the driver. Is this Mycroft’s car, then? 

Sherlock looks out the window, and John shifts close next to him. They’re both clammy, smell like sweat and burned caramel, but he doesn’t care, he feels worry churn his chest. Did Sherlock just give up? Is this it? “Sherlock, how bad is this, really?” 

Sherlock sighs. He sounds annoyed at himself. “The fact that I just lost the technical after _fainting_ , or Jim?” 

John considers. “Both.” Mainly Jim, but whichever one he wants to talk about first, really. 

Sherlock is quiet for a moment. “Mycroft can handle Jim.” Then he adds, “Not the baking, though. He’s an awful baker.” And tries to grin. 

Despite everything, it does make John feel better. 

He’d assumed they’d be going to Mycroft’s hotel room again, but after a short drive the car pulls up by a meadow with a small pond. Mycroft is standing near it, looking perfectly put together as always but slightly out of place between that much sunshine and foliage. 

John lets Sherlock go first. He shields his eyes from the still too-bright sun. 

The grass crunches under his feet. There are green leaves, lazily floating on the pond. Insects buzzing around it. John wonders why on earth they’re meeting here. 

Mycroft takes Sherlock in. “Feeling better?” He sounds genuinely concerned, John thinks.

Sherlock seems as if he wants to say something scathing. Then reconsiders, and nods, once, and just looks at Mycroft, something unreadable in his eyes. 

John feels hesitant to interrupt, but after a bit he says, “So, you’re not going to give in to Jim...?”

“Would you, John?” Mycroft asks.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock sounds chiding, but John can understand him wanting to know. This is Mycroft’s life, too, after all. 

John looks at him. “If there is no other option.” As much as he wants to compete to win, at the end of the day it is only a baking competition, after all. 

“Of course there is.” Sherlock seems certain about that. Good. 

“But he really has those pictures, he wasn’t lying?” John has been wondering about that. If Jim does, he doesn’t really see another way out of this, except perhaps to buy them from him? John doesn’t want to presume but he imagines Mycroft must have money. Sherlock as well. 

“We believe that he does.” Mycroft seems uncomfortable admitting that, not with his question but the obvious truth behind it, John thinks. He makes a point out of meeting his eyes. This is what he agreed to, after all. He knew. No reason to get jealous about it now when Sherlock asked him so explicitly, although part of him is. Sherlock fucked Mycroft, apparently. Feeding. What were they _doing_? 

“My people are watching him, and as soon as the final is finished they will make sure it is dealt with. I could intervene sooner of course, but I’m assuming that you want him there to compete tomorrow?”

“Yes, we do.” Sherlock sounds like he’s looking forward to it, even now. “The surveillance?”

“I crashed and restarted the entire network as soon as you stepped into the car, it should be safe. Internet and all phone reception will be dead around the time the results are announced, he’ll be closely monitored, and even if he somehow does succeed in getting something out we can control that as well.”

John eyes Mycroft. He never did get a straight answer out of Sherlock who Mycroft even is, and what he just described doing... “Right, if you don’t mind me asking, what is it that you do, exactly?”

Mycroft smiles delicately. “I hold a minor position in the British government.”

“...by which he means that he is the British government. Also MI6, secret service, and so on.” Sherlock sounds personally insulted by that fact. 

Oh! No surprise Mycroft’s reputation is important, then. Jim’s threat about the newspapers suddenly makes more sense as well. 

Mycroft takes in his surprised reaction. “Out of curiosity, what was it that you thought I did?”

“Um...” John knows that it’s going to sound absurd, now, but he did consider this. “Mob boss. Head of a major criminal organisation, leader of a vast underground network, something like that?”

“Hm.” Mycroft arches an eyebrow, but he seems rather flattered, John thinks. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

There’s a slight pause. A dragonfly swoops between them and lands a bit further on the water. John can feel the sun’s strength on his shoulders. It’s still hot and muggy even though it’s getting late, it feels as if it might storm later tonight. 

“Did you call them?” Sherlock asks.

“Ah, yes, they’re currently in Texas...” Mycroft frowns “...line dancing. Perhaps? It was not the most enlightening of conversations. They are both well, Dad says she still doesn’t suspect and that he’s rooting for you.” 

Their parents? Mycroft explains, “Mummy was always very fond of Sherlock’s baking.” 

“Yes, if she’d know that I’m competing she would be tempted to come over here and...” Sherlock waves his hands. “...cheer. Imagine the horror.” 

Mycroft widens his eyes. “Yes, the horror indeed.”

John laughs and looks between them. Strange how he never thought that this would be so... casual. That they actually joke with each other. 

Mycroft’s eyes flicker over Sherlock, soft with concern. “Well, I believe that’s everything.” John can see why, Sherlock still seems too pale, up close, sweat dotting his brow. John would like for him to sit down and have a decent meal, soon. Mycroft waves them off. “Go on, you two, go and bake a cake.” He makes it sound as something utterly boring and beneath him, but John is starting to suspect that it, as nearly everything about him, is nothing but a facade. 

“So that you can eat it, later?” Sherlock sounds as if he’s joking, but it’s actually a question, John thinks. 

Mycroft smiles a small smile. “Ah, such is my master plan.”

Sherlock looks at him, with a bit of fondness, but longing, too, John can suddenly see it plainly written across his face. “Is it?” 

Mycroft looks at him intently. “One could say so.” 

John swallows. This feels, well... He wonders if he should give them a moment to say goodbye, would that be the polite thing to do? 

But Sherlock pulls himself away. He’s smiling though. “Come, John.” 

John looks back at Mycroft, who nods curtly in goodbye, and they walk back to the car. The air-conditioning is a godsend in this weather. So is sitting down. John leans back, and stretches out his leg. 

Maybe that should have been stranger than it really was, John thinks. The looks, the obvious attraction between them. Maybe that should have disturbed him more. He doesn’t dislike Mycroft, really. Plus meeting in a field to discuss surveillance. It was rather cloak and dagger.

“Why are you smiling?” Sherlock seems concerned. 

“Oh, nothing, just, this. You’re being blackmailed but your brother is a secret agent so it’s going to be fine.” 

“Oh.” Sherlock nods. 

He’s quiet for a while, and then says, “It’s complicated, John.” 

“I know.” Mycroft is cautious, John can sense that coming off of him in waves. He looks at Sherlock with obvious care and indulgence, but there’s something intense about it, as if he’s constantly holding back, too. “Or I don’t know, really, but you both seem to be doing well, so yeah, that works for me.” John leans his head back on the seat. God, he’s beat now. 

Sherlock taps his armrest. Looks at his fingers, out the window. “Does it?” His voice sounds carefully subdued. He’s not just asking about the blackmail.

John looks around at the black government car they’re sitting in. He smiles. “Well, I can’t say I’m bored, can I?” 

It would be easy to be jealous, John knows. To obsess about what he heard Jim reveal and Mycroft confirm, that they did have sex last week. But... John looks at Sherlock. Right now he just feels happy to be here. With the prospect of going to bed with him soon, with the knowledge that this isn’t the last time, that they’ll meet up in London as well. That they can actually have a relationship this way. He thinks about it. He can’t guarantee anything, but, “If I’m not okay, I’ll tell you, all right?” 

Sherlock meets his eyes briefly. He looks relieved, John thinks. 

 

\---

 

John hasn’t touched his gun since the Bake Off began. 

He still reaches for it, occasionally, misses the comforting press of it against his side, but it’s neatly stowed away in a cardboard box underneath his uniforms now. 

He still feels the unresolved pull of war, he suspects he always will. But the grating urgency of it is growing fainter. 

He could say that that he’s realised he’s never going back and that there’s no point in longing for the impossible. Or that it’s simply because he’s so busy, or even because he’s got someone, now. But the truth is that it is a choice. One made easier by Sherlock, yes, by blogging and baking and competing, but in the end it is a choice. To allow himself to leave the war behind. To be whole without. 

And he’s making it. 

 

\---

 

They get dropped off as close to the restaurant as possible, the driver under obvious instructions not to make them walk any further than necessary. John imagines that’s probably for Sherlock’s benefit more than his own, but he’s glad of it, too. He really feels what he’s done now that the tension of the day is wearing off. His leg is starting to throb, and he’s aching all over. 

Because of their little field trip they’re a bit late. Most of the crew have eaten already, so it’s relatively quiet. John feels uneasy at the prospect of seeing Jim, and he can see Sherlock scanning the room for him, too, but he’s nowhere to be seen. 

They sit down and eat in companionable silence. 

Sherlock is taking care to eat well, finishing his plate, but he seems preoccupied. He’s most likely running though the final in his mind, John thinks. He’s reminded of the first times they sat here together. Where Sherlock seemed like such a distant thing. And later, such an unbelievable surprise. _I find you attractive as well, John._ The memory still makes him smile. 

After a while John reaches out and touches Sherlock’s hand on the table, finds the little dips between his knuckles. Sherlock uses his finger to idly trace the inside of John’s palm in reply, slowly comes back to reality, and smiles. 

Later they walk back together. Neither of them have an en-suite bathroom, so John gathers up his things while Sherlock goes up to his own room, and they barricade themselves into one of the bathrooms on the ground floor. 

John undresses matter-of-factly, Sherlock does as well and they kiss briefly, naked skin against naked skin, then try to get into the same shower. It’s really sort of unpractical, but John gets to lick the skin of Sherlock’s bare shoulder, lukewarm water running over it in rivulets. He gets to see what Sherlock looks like with his hair plastered to his skull, his face brightly lit by the fluorescent light, his eyelashes dark and clumped together with water as he closes his eyes under the spray. The way he washes his own skin. 

It’s strangely personal. 

John traces the smooth lines of Sherlock’s hips, his arse, his spine. Sherlock’s hands reach out, take John’s and John lets himself be pulled to his back, until they’re standing there, slightly swaying, John’s face pressed to Sherlock’s wet shoulder, tired in a too-small shower. 

They don’t bother with dressing again, walk back through the half-dark hallway to John’s room on bare feet, with towels slung around their hips, carrying bundles of clothes and slippery bottles of shampoo, and John doesn’t remember ever feeling this old and young at the same time. It’s the final tomorrow, and it’s humid and pressing and he’s exhausted, and everything happening next should seem intimidating in a way but it doesn’t, not right now. Not with the sound of their bare feet wetly walking in sync on a marble hallway. 

They settle down into bed, skin still damp, sheets cool, windows opened enough to let in a gust of wind and a host of unfamiliar sounds in the sweltering room. John lies down and lazily kisses Sherlock’s warm mouth. Sherlock isn’t hard and neither is he, they’re both too tired for anything more but he still loves the lavishness of it, the unhurried press of lips. Leisurely kisses. John can smell the shampoo in Sherlock’s hair, and the chemicals on both their skin. His feet are dusty, now. “John,” Sherlock offers. Some of Sherlock’s curls are dripping onto his pillow. Sherlock’s hand is splayed over John’s stomach, his leg over John’s hip. 

John hums. He feels so worn-out his entire body is buzzing with it. 

“If you come to Baker Street.” 

“Hm?” John’s fingers are on the curve of Sherlock’s nape, caress the line between hair and skin, the nubs of Sherlock’s vertebrae. 

“You should stay.”

John only realises what Sherlock’s saying slowly. He’d agreed to come up next weekend, but... 

Sherlock’s voice sounds low and scratchy, just about to fall asleep, John knows, but still he says it as if it’s a perfectly wonderful suggestion. “Move in with me.” 

John feels a slow, muted beat of dread. Sherlock can’t be serious. Inviting him to move in to a place he’s never even been before, after seven weeks of knowing him, after everything with Mycroft, after Jim, on the eve before the final. John wants to say no, or treat it as a joke, but then he can’t bring himself to because of the warm weight of Sherlock in his arms. The thought of having that every night. He knows what he means. John swallows. 

“You can decide later.” Sherlock says, and pulls him close, decidedly tucks his wet head onto John’s shoulder. 

John, still stunned, relaxes slowly under Sherlock’s already familiar weight. He’s right. 

Later.

 

 

 

 

 


	8. The Final 2/2 (Mycroft)

 

 

  
Mycroft has been thinking about the approaching final all week, slightly nervous right along with Sherlock and John. On the grand scale of things, it is a rather frivolous thing to even occupy his mind with, of course. But between world politics, threats, and assassinations, Mycroft looks at the monitors, sees Sherlock work himself into a frenzy, and he finds he’s restless, too. 

He doesn’t go to Baker Street, even though he thinks about it. Walking up those stairs, into Sherlock’s kitchen. The fact that he could is enough to distract him several times a day, heart beating fast in his chest. He could take those canapés from Sherlock’s hands. 

He could tell him he’s hungry. 

Mycroft is deeply, heavily aware that this is madness. Again. That if he has any wisdom, if he has learnt anything at all, he should stop it, right now. Protect Sherlock from himself, and protect his own heart, too. 

But he doesn’t want to. 

He can’t imagine a life for himself where he does not love Sherlock, where his care for him is not in every action, every word and thought. So if Sherlock asks, he will not refuse him. He will never attempt not to want him again, and that decision feels oddly clear, now. 

What Sherlock does with that knowledge is his choice, however, and Mycroft intends to honour it. He is not going to intrude, no matter how much he’d like to. Whatever Sherlock wants, he can have it, Mycroft thinks to himself. And that includes John, of course.

Mycroft takes care in eating something small every few hours, remembering the feeling of Sherlock’s fingers on his stomach, on his hips, his back. Reaching for flesh that wasn’t there. 

He goes out to Somerset on Saturday morning, watches as Jim threatens Sherlock in the marquee. Then follows every word through the crackling phone line later, and has a plan in action and agents doing his bidding before Jim has even finished blackmailing them. 

It is terrifying, yes. It’s exactly what Mycroft had always feared, someone ambitious finding out and being intelligent enough to use it as a pressure point. He immediately gets someone to come over and scan the entire top floor of the hotel and the neighbouring vantage points to figure out if and how Jim could have gotten pictures. He blocks phone reception and data streams; he puts a whole team on shadowing Jim with a single command. But it’s also strangely cathartic, to have years and years of mentally anticipated threats, endless late-night scenarios running through his mind, and finally have one of them come true. Mycroft has anticipated every minute detail of how this could go. Jim is not an amateur, that much is clear, but he can’t hope to go against him and win. Not on this. 

But then Sherlock collapses behind his counter, and Mycroft feels as if all the air has left his lungs.

All he can think is, ‘That’s it. He’s using again.’ 

And, ‘I didn’t see it, how did I not see it?’ And, ‘How could I do this to him?’ And so much more, enough so that when John calls out for a Coke and asks how long it’d been since Sherlock’s eaten, it takes Mycroft a couple of seconds to realise that it’s nothing serious. That Sherlock collapsed from the heat, or stress, or hunger, probably all of the above, and that that is a thing that people do, even when they’re healthy. Even when they’re clean. 

Mycroft still sends a car for Sherlock after the challenge, even though he could just as well have called. He knows it’s selfish. 

He chooses the pond not only because it is completely unpredictable, but also because it is close by, so that it won’t take too much of Sherlock’s time or energy. And it is enormously reassuring, to see him, John in tow. Although he‘s still looking wrung out, Sherlock is joking and smiling. Partly for John’s benefit, Mycroft knows, if he and Sherlock would be alone it would be tense conversation and god, maybe hard kissing, tearing at clothes by the side of the pond, but he can’t help but soak every second of it in regardless. 

And John, it’s still hard to look at him, at times. Having to face him while he quite clearly knows what happened last week. What they did. But John is willing to keep up a conversation in spite of it, and seems, just like last time, only inclined to be friendly and interested. That plus the fact that Mycroft has just seen in full practical Technicolor what John can be for Sherlock, has seen him tend to Sherlock, authoritatively take over and bake for him… It feels insurmountable.

John. The one thing neither of them ever saw coming. 

Mycroft watches them later in the evening through his screens as well, sees them melt into bed together, hears Sherlock’s heartbreaking tone as he asks John to move in. Sherlock is making strides he never anticipated. He’s finding happiness and it hurts to watch, for fear of it going wrong.

John will accept, of course, Mycroft thinks. Why wouldn’t he. John will move in, sit on Baker Street’s sofa as if he belongs there, and offer him cups of tea. John will chat with him while Sherlock proudly looks on from behind his shoulder, Mycroft can imagine it clearly. John will smile and be happy and maybe Sherlock will be, too. 

He’ll have to take the cameras away, then. He’ll have to stay away, because why would he be needed, anymore. What could he possibly offer Sherlock then... 

 

\---

 

Mycroft’s first kisses are from Sherlock. Clumsy, wet ones, smelling of sweet things and milk, badly aimed and freely plastered all over his face. 

Later it’s mainly hugs, thin arms around his neck demanding piggyback rides and saying ‘I love you,’ or ‘love me,’ or ‘let me tickle you until you gasp for air because I think that’s funny.’ 

He used to long to go back to that time. Before everything became complicated. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft is fast asleep when his mobile rings at four in the morning, but he reaches out and grabs it in a practised move regardless. Anthea only wakes him at this hour if it’s highly important, but still it happens regularly enough that he’s used to it. He is instantly awake and focused, tries to think of possible problems and their solutions as he answers, “Yes?” 

There is a slight pause. “I might not win.” 

Sherlock! Mycroft breathes out in a rush. “You might not.” He lies back down.

“If Jim does, have him executed for me, will you?” 

Mycroft rubs his eyes. He only went to bed after one, dealing with the final paper work on the Jim situation. Still, three hours of sleep isn’t bad. “Is that a request or just general sentiment, because you might want to be clear.”

Sherlock breathes out a laugh, “Both.” He doesn’t sound as stressed as Mycroft would have imagined. Good. 

It’s important that Sherlock is prepared to deal with the other possibility as well, though, so, “John might win,” Mycroft offers. It’s even warmer now than it was earlier, oppressive inside his room, and he pushes the sheet off. His whole body feels clammy with sweat. “I take it you have no requests towards executing him should that occur.”

“John deserves to win.” Sherlock sounds sure of that. And then, a bit more uncertain, “He should.” 

Ah. “Instead of you?” 

Sherlock hesitates, “I could...” 

“You can’t make him happy by letting him win, Sherlock. John wants to win on his own or not at all.” Mycroft is surprised, although he shouldn’t be, he thinks. Sherlock’s in love, of course he’s going to consider this. He would do the same. 

Sherlock is right that the actual prize might mean more to John, the money. But Sherlock’s been working himself to the bone for this, the way that he has never worked for anything in his life before. No one deserves it more. “You can’t love him by pushing this onto him.” 

Sherlock breathes out, something searching in his voice. “You would.” 

Oh, Sherlock. Mycroft closes his eyes. Please don’t make the same mistakes I did. 

“I haven’t. Intervened, you are aware of that.” It feels like a memory, this. Lying in the dark, phone pressed to his ear, Sherlock’s voice on the other end. Something from another time. “For the same reasons.” 

There’s a pause, and Sherlock shifts the phone. 

Mycroft is amazed that Sherlock even called. Felt the need to speak to him. It’s comforting, to know that he felt he could. He thinks he might hang up now, think it over on his own, it’s not as if he ever listens to him anyway, but Sherlock says slowly, “About Jim.”

“Yes?”

“Have you considered just...” he stalls, “...letting him?”

What? Mycroft frowns, letting him would rob Jim of his only bargaining chip, obviously, but there is no reason to. The chance that he manages to leak that information despite Mycroft’s precautions or cause any type of other disturbance is minimal. “Why?”

“What’s the worst it would do?” 

Sherlock is not stupid, he knows well enough what it would do. “Do you really need to me answer that?”

“It’s been twenty years, Mycroft.” Sherlock sounds earnest, as if he’s been picking up on how to from John. Caring, almost. 

_Twenty-three_ , Mycroft immediately corrects in his head. 

“Maybe it’s time you stop feeling guilty.” 

He can hear by Sherlock’s voice that he’s standing up. Where, in his room? Looking out the window, most likely. Holding something, that pocket watch, or playing with the windowsill, or his fingers. Sherlock always was a fidgeter. Mycroft swallows. “And what good do you imagine that would do?” He can’t be serious, suggesting this. 

“I wonder.” Sherlock breathes. 

Mycroft is stunned into silence. 

Sherlock waits for an answer, sighs, and then says, “Good night.” The line goes dead. 

Mycroft puts his mobile back on the nightstand. He’s bright awake. 

What good would it do... nothing! He’s not Sherlock, who flaunts his love for the world to see. Sherlock, who has never been genuinely terrified of what might happen if people found out. He never had to be, Mycroft always carried that responsibility. And yes, he’s right, the guilt. What good would it possibly do? What would it do, to have people look at them and _know_? To see it in their eyes? Hear the whispers? It’s a horrible thought. Painful. 

Mycroft wants nothing to do with it, but he thinks about it, despite himself. Because Sherlock asked.

He doesn’t fall asleep again, so he’s awake when there’s a distant rumble, and then the first gusts of wind and hesitant taps of rain hit his window. Finally. A storm.

He gets out of bed and starts working around five, in all it’s fairly convenient that he was woken that early. He handles a phone call with China, then one with the Sultan of Brunei’s secret service, the rain running off his windows, the light slowly getting brighter outside. 

He goes out around seven, he takes a pale green umbrella but he doesn’t end up needing it. The grass is wet under his shoes and there are puddles on the road, but the clouds are slowly clearing already, promising a warm day again. 

The woman at the bakery recognises him. Although she doesn’t say so, Mycroft can see it in her eyes. He must have made an impression last week, he thinks. Negative, most likely. He orders a croissant, a pain aux raisins, and a pain au chocolat, then lingers on the walk back and eats the croissant slowly. It’s nowhere near as good as one of Sherlock’s, of course, but the pastry still flakes soft and buttery in his mouth. 

Anthea isn’t in the London office yet but she will be soon, so he sends her a list of things that she’ll have to go over for later today. Has more tea, lines the two remaining pastries up on his desk, and eats half of each at eight, and the rest at nine with a cup of Espresso. He watches the sun grow slowly stronger, double-checks security measures, then works on some paperwork, makes more calls.

It takes a long time before it’s after ten and the cameras start the live feed. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft wonders if he was born with the capacity to love once, and he chose Sherlock. Or if he could make himself do it again. 

He never had a best friend, or a lover. A teenage crush, or an adult dalliance. He hasn’t lusted after, or longed for, or even cared about, truly, anyone but Sherlock. He never tried, deeming it an unnecessary effort, but something he wonders whether he reasoned himself out of it. 

Sherlock was always capable of much more, Mycroft knew that. Something searing and grand, a love that would take all of him. But it’s funny how he never realised that that meant that he would almost certainly leave him, in the end. 

 

\---

 

The Showstopper Challenge

“Well, John, here we are, the final Showstopper!” Mrs. Hudson smiles. She and Lestrade are making the rounds early today, there’s still a good ten minutes to go before the challenge even starts. 

John is setting up behind his counter, seeming somewhat more anxious than in previous weeks, but only just. He’s looking slightly better dressed than usual, too, a neat shirt and trousers. Probably the best he owns, Mycroft thinks. He might suspect Sherlock’s influence, if he didn’t know for a fact that Sherlock’s idea of a romantic gift would be to bake for John. Or, failing that, buy him baking supplies, biology specimens, books, or possibly unusual antiques, before his mind would ever stray to clothes. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Hm, good,” John says. “Yeah, fine really.” 

Sherlock is following along from the counter next to John’s, and the camera pans to him next. Mycroft would expect him to be busily arranging his supplies, or to be deep in thought, but he’s neither, instead looks straight into the camera, his eyes briefly vulnerable and soft, and then nods at Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft’s fingers tighten on his cup. 

“Nervous, Sherlock?” Lestrade asks. 

“Irrelevant.” Sherlock says. So yes, then. 

God, what if he loses. Mycroft had thought it best, not interfering, but it’s different now that he’s seeing Sherlock like this. He feels sympathetic about John, too. Should he really watch them go through this and lose? Can he?

The judges seem to know that further questioning Sherlock won’t do them much good, so they go over to Jim, who is smiling widely, as if this is exactly the moment that he has been waiting for all these weeks. 

“And you, Jim, you seem to be in good spirits?”

“Well, Martha, Greg, I can honestly say it’s a dream come true to compete here today.” 

Mycroft rolls his eyes. Then shifts to the edge of his sofa. Two minutes to go. 

Sherlock takes his apron, and ties it in the back. John does the same. Their eyes meet, and they share something unspoken. A mutual agreement to do well, Mycroft thinks. To see each other through to the end. 

One minute. All of them are ready. The cameras are being set up, and Mrs. Hudson steps into the lit space, Lestrade behind her. 

“Good morning bakers, and welcome to the final challenge of this year’s Bake Off.” She’s practically vibrating with good will, eyeing each of them in turn. “For this final Showstopper, we would like you to show us what you have learnt in these last seven weeks, and bake us a unique, a spectacular... wedding cake!” 

“We want you to think bigger and better, more refined in terms of decoration, innovation, technique, flavour and style.” Lestrade looks at them seriously. “This is your final chance to show us what you can do, so we’re expecting nothing but absolute excellence from all three of you.”

“You have five and a half hours.” Mrs. Hudson smiles. “Good luck dears, on your marks... get set, and bake!” 

Jim, Sherlock, and John, all three of them move quickly; they know their counters well, grab ingredients without having to look at them, turn on the oven by feel, chop and weigh with practised, confident hands. 

It’s going to take long hours before they are anywhere near finished, this is a marathon bake, so Mycroft settles in and grabs the nearest pile of forms. Trouble in Gaza, again. 

His gaze keeps on drifting, though. 

Sherlock. Sifting flour, whisking egg whites, juggling with trays and beakers. He certainly looks as if he is going to give it his all. He’s making large amounts of meringue, a light whipped cream, and a paste for sugar flowers. He’s even routinely taking the air temperature and moisture levels. He looks purposeful, writing things down in pencil, his fingers quick and deft. 

He’s going to have to bake the cake of his life.

 

\---

 

There’s something fragile in Sherlock, in the way he wants, he loves, tries and hurts so absolutely. 

Even as a child, Mycroft constantly had to tell him, ‘just put it into perspective,’ and ‘think it through, first,’ and ‘emotions are rarely helpful, Sherlock.’ And he’s not sure, now, whether that brought Sherlock any comfort, or just pushed him into ignoring himself. 

Whether that was what attracted him to drugs. 

 

\---

 

Jim is making a Death by Chocolate cake with passion fruit, baking thin layer after layer of sponge, spreading buttery, smooth chocolate cream and passion fruit jelly in between. He’s working lightning fast and with professional polish, as usual. Watching him, Mycroft is not convinced that Jim even needed to blackmail anyone. He might very well win it on talent alone. But then what would have been the fun in that, most likely. For men like him it’s never enough just to win, Mycroft thinks, they have to make a point, as well. They have to annihilate everyone else. 

John is making chiffon sponges and then deconstructing them; he cuts them with the help of pre-formed circles into thin round layers of sponge, and stacks them on top of each other on a base. He starts with a small circle, spreads a layer of brown Bailey’s chocolate ganache around the sides with an icing spatula, then carefully fits another, slightly larger ring of sponge over that, adds more ganache, and so on, so that when the cake gets cut into in the right way, it will resemble tree lines. Mycroft thinks he knows where John’s inspiration must have come from. He has spent a lot of time with his back pressed against trees lately. 

Anthea is preparing a list for John, this morning. There are dozens of bakeries in easily commutable distance around Baker Street, and so far there are six where he could start next month, should he want to. 

Mycroft suggested the most prestigious ones himself, but, keeping John’s fondness for pies and breads in mind, also asked her to look at some low-brow, artisan bakeries. John might value the process over the exclusivity, Mycroft suspects. Either way, he will be well-paid, of course. Working only part-time, so that it’s physically doable and he has enough time for his blog and Sherlock, and maybe physical therapy, if that doctor gets back to them. John will feel more productive if he has a job, Mycroft thinks. It will do him good. 

As always, it’s slightly hypnotic to watch the baking, but Mycroft does step outside briefly to receive a package, handles several phone calls, and a long one from Anthea. At noon he has a salad delivered from a nearby restaurant with a fresh raspberry vinaigrette, Somerset’s local Capricorn goat’s cheese sprinkled on top, and oven-fresh slices of toasted baguette. He eats it slowly, watching the feeds.

Sherlock is expertly stacking thin layers of his crumbly meringue now, adding a brushstroke of light, golden honey to prevent it from soaking up moisture, and drops of orange zest to each one. He’s working at a good pace, not frenzied but focused. He must have gotten some sleep and food, Mycroft thinks, he looks much better today. It still seems as if it is warm inside the tent though.

Sherlock leaves his meringues to stiffen up and starts grinding ginger. Then selects treacle, sugar. There’s a bit of a wistful expression on his face, Mycroft notes. Some cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon... Mycroft feels cold when he realises. He’s making _gingerbread_.

Distance, apart from a necessity, is also a weakness, Mycroft knows. It’s just one that only hits him rarely. 

 

Two hours later, all three cakes are getting their finishing touches. 

Sherlock is the only one to have a completely white cake, and it could have turned out too expected for a wedding cake, but the shapes and the delicacy of it draw the eye in. It’s a twist on a Merveilleux cake, the adhesive between the layers of meringue is a very light whipped cream, then cloaked in shredded white chocolate. The way Sherlock touches it, he seems to be concerned about pressure, probably also why he couldn’t use fondant for decoration, Mycroft thinks. It needs to be light. 

Instead Sherlock is working extremely intricately, using a thin, needle-like appliance to bend and shape sugar paste into flowers, then pressing them on gently. It looks almost sculptural, like marble, the petals so thin they are nearly see-through, the edges delicately bent and carefully put against one another so that no one flower is the same as the next. 

It is the most artistic Mycroft has ever seen Sherlock. It is almost touching to see the way his hands are creating this. 

John’s wedding cake is textured on the outside as well, but his feels more organic. He has spread a layer of cream over the sides, and is using a stamp to make it resemble tree bark, and then faint traces of cacao powder to give it an attractive, slightly understated nature feel. His base is an actual piece of wood as well, giving it extra height. The sponge itself is mildly flavoured by Madagascar vanilla pods, but he has also, curiously, added a slight layer of apricot zest. To cut through the sugar, officially, but Mycroft, with a shot of guilt, remembers the tang of apricot as well, tart and fresh against his tongue. Sherlock’s tiffin. 

John looks at Sherlock frequently, and Sherlock looks back, they are keeping a close eye on each other’s progress, but both are doing well, Mycroft thinks. They also seem to be steadfastly ignoring Jim. 

Jim has used his knives to expertly cut and shape his entire, decadent-looking chocolate cake as a crown, then spread a thin layer of fondant over it and he is moulding it into perfect curves and edges. He has a picture of the Imperial State Crown as a reference. 

Out of all the things Jim is, subtle isn’t one of them, Mycroft thinks. Although he’s almost glad of that, at this point. 

Mycroft can see their frequent gazes towards the clock. The lines of stress on their faces. But all three of them have strictly prepared plans, tightly controlled schedules, and as a result they are all three wiping excess icing, adding a finishing touch here and there, when Lestrade announces, “Three, two, one, and that’s it bakers, stop touching your cakes!”

There’s little instant relief today. 

John does sit down, and Sherlock goes over to join him, leans into him, and briefly not so much kisses as leans his lips against John’s brow. John smiles tiredly. They’re both still in their aprons, now splattered with batter, chocolate flakes and cacao powder. 

They speak little. The tension is heavy in the air. 

The judges do give them a short break and a provided sandwich, but all of them are finished within minutes, anxious to get the final verdict. The weather has been less hot today, but still pressing and humid, partly overcast. The wind plays with the side of the marquee. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft spent serious time considering whether it could have been different, if their parents had had the sense to send him off to school earlier. Had provided both of them with friends, with a sense of social accountability and normality. 

Sherlock’s addiction hurt their parents tremendously, and Sherlock mostly ignores them, now, but he does truly love them, Mycroft knows. He doesn’t blame them for anything. 

Mycroft himself isn’t always so sure. 

 

\---

 

They start with Jim. 

Mrs. Hudson smiles, “So, inspired by the Crown Jewels. What a way to challenge yourself, Jim, to try and recreate such an iconic piece, and then to do it so well, too!”

Jim’s cake is less high than John’s or Sherlock’s and slightly smaller, but it is by far the most decorated. He has several bold primary colours in his fondant, actual flakes of gold on the arches, edible pearls, chocolate truffles, and the crown is resting on a glossy, checkered pillow of fondant. 

“It’s got a strong contemporary feel to it, it’s modern, it’s attractive,” Lestrade says, “The only thing I question though, is this a design for a wedding?” 

Mrs. Hudson shrugs, “I see nothing wrong with it, every bride wants to feel like a queen, doesn’t she? Or the groom like a king.” Jim winks at her. 

Lestrade cuts in to it carefully; the knife slices through easily, and puts a piece sideways on his plate. “The cut looks very neat, you’ve got your layers perfectly even, the texture of it all is visually very enticing.” 

Mrs. Hudson takes a piece on her fork, and Lestrade does as well. He prods it with his finger. “Good bake, too.” 

Sherlock is leaning over his counter in order to see better, his knuckles white as he grips the wood tightly. John is sitting down, but is following attentively. 

Le moment supreme, Mycroft thinks. They taste. The tent falls silent, until Mrs. Hudson smiles. “Hmm, how rich!” 

Lestrade nods, “Yes, such a deep chocolate flavour.” He seems to like it. Jim grins. 

Mrs. Hudson finishes chewing, hand daintily in front of her mouth, and adds, “You’ve got a nice blend of the chocolates here, and it tastes absolutely scrumptious, the fondant as well.”

“I do think it’s on the heavy side because of the amount of chocolate but in this instance that works for you, actually, that is what this cake is supposed to be all about.” Lestrade says. 

“You’ve shown great technique, great flavour, a lovely design, too.” Mrs. Hudson happily pats Jim on the shoulder. He smiles at her, although it falls off his face as soon as she turns away. 

Lestrade nods. “Well done.” 

Mycroft doesn’t know if they are conscious of not giving the final results away yet, but it does sound like it. All three of these cakes look spectacular, he thinks. Maybe it won’t come down to this tasting at all. And if it doesn’t, Sherlock doesn’t stand a chance. 

 

They’re up to John, who is looking relatively relaxed, waiting for the judges in his customary stance. It’s the last time he’s going to have to. Mycroft wonders if John’s going to be mildly depressed once all of this is over. He probably will, he’ll miss the competitive aspect. And Sherlock, will he be at a loss as to what to do with himself, or will he just focus on a different obsession? Mycroft suspects the second, it’ll be music, or crimes again, or, god help him, John. 

“Ah, how beautiful!” Mrs. Hudson says. “How fitting, too, for our last day here in Somerset between the trees, it’s almost a little nostalgic.” 

John’s tree cake is looking very edible indeed. It’s decorated minimally but there is something genuine about it, it’s nothing like Jim’s obsessively straight lines and garish colours, John hasn’t hidden the artistry of his work, or the texture of the cake, and that decision has only enhanced it. 

Lestrade nods, “In terms of decoration, yours is the most straight-forward, John, but I don’t mind that. It’s still stunning, it’s worthy of being a centrepiece at a wedding, and then especially knowing what will be inside and the amount of work that took, I can’t blame you for not doing a fondant.” 

Mrs. Hudson takes the knife. “So, I cut this from the side?” 

“Yes, like you’d be cutting down a tree,” John smiles. 

Mrs. Hudson does, and carefully flips the piece over onto a plate. It’s a perfect circle, a pale yellow, and baked inside are half a dozen of round, dark brown ganache tree lines, in varying distance from one another. It looks great. “Wow. What an effect!” 

“Yes, that worked out really well.” Lestrade presses his finger over the cake. “It looks just slightly dry for a chiffon, but I can see why you needed that to make this design work, and I think the ganache and apricot will make up for it?”

“I hope so.” John says dutifully.

They use their forks to taste, and again there’s a brief moment of tense quiet. Even the production assistants are looking on avidly. John quickly eyes Sherlock. Sherlock bites his lip, and leans closer to hear. 

“Hmm,” Mrs. Hudson nods, “Rich and creamy, with a sweet, buttery aroma.” 

“Much softer than Jim’s, more of a gentle build but I like that, yeah, I like that a lot.” Lestrade takes another piece. 

“I can taste the vanilla very well, and then the apricot, that’s just delicious.” Mrs. Hudson says. “Fitting for summer, too. And a summer wedding, definitely.” 

“Well done, John, great construction, wonderful flavour.” Lestrade nods sincerely. John smiles. 

 

And then they turn their attention to Sherlock. Mycroft shifts in his seat. His own hands feel clammy now. 

Sherlock’s cake looks magnificent in the afternoon light. The flowers are a pale white, subtle, but because of their unevenness there is something wild about them as well, as if they were blown by the wind onto that cake. Mycroft wonders if Sherlock is referencing his wildflower cake from week one in this. Whether he wanted to recreate it with what he knows now. 

“So, this is a Merveilleux cake, interesting.” Lestrade says, “We haven’t seen any of these before, and actually they’re not very well known around here, are they?” 

Sherlock swallows. He looks incredibly tense. “No, they originated in Belgium and the North of France.”

“You know, I always think they look slightly messy from the outside because of the chocolate and cream, but this...” Lestrade motions at the whole of it, then looks at Sherlock, “I don’t say this often, but I’m impressed by what you’ve done here. I’m genuinely impressed.” 

Mycroft nods. Of course they are, just look at it.

“Yes, the decoration on this, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson looks as if she is only barely holding back from hugging Sherlock. “It’s like a sculpture, it’s truly stunning.” 

John smiles at Sherlock. Sherlock glances at him quickly, with pride, but mainly worry. They haven’t tasted yet. 

Lestrade takes a knife, and carefully carves out a piece for Mrs. Hudson, then one for himself. It’s almost a shame to cut into it.

The tent is rarely noisy, but it seems incredibly hushed right now. _Everyone_ is waiting along with Sherlock, Jim chief among them, moving his weight from one foot to the other, staring Sherlock down. Sherlock himself only has eyes for the two judges in front of him, looks at them anxiously. 

They taste.

Mrs. Hudson closes her eyes. “Hmmm, the cream, the meringue, and what’s that, oh, gingerbread? And there’s a little...” 

“Honey and orange zest.” Sherlock offers quickly, hoarsely. 

“It’s faint, it doesn’t hit you.” Lestrade says, “You’ve got cream, that sweetness of white chocolate, and then a hint of spice and citrus coming through as well.”

“Tasting this is like a cloud, it’s as light as air.” Mrs. Hudson says. She takes her fork, and presses on the piece of cake they have on the plate. It flattens immediately. “Look at this! It’s incredible how you’ve created a meringue and base strong enough to support your decoration.”

“...and at the same time kept that signature lightness of a Merveilleux, yeah.” Lestrade shakes his head briefly. “Sherlock, I have to say, you’ve finally managed technique, decoration, texture, _and_ the flavour. It’s, yeah, I’m impressed. Well done.” 

Mrs. Hudson beams at him, but doesn’t say any more. 

Mycroft leans back. That sounded good. _Very_ good, in fact. 

It’s hard to interpret Sherlock’s or John’s chances at winning from this small fragment alone, it will depend greatly on whether they take the entire competition into account, or just the final cake. And whether they will have an eye for progress, whether they will reward Sherlock for his originality, or Jim for his skill, or John for his flavours. But Mycroft feels more hopeful than he did this morning. 

It doesn’t feel impossible. 

 

\---

 

For so many years, everything that Mycroft is is a sin. 

His love is an enormous shortcoming, a deviance, a weight, a grievous parade of ever-repeating mistakes. Sherlock’s cakes are dangerous. They give him stomach aches and vomiting, weakness and pain, but he deserves it, because he enjoys it, because he’s aroused by it, by his own little brother feeding him poison. 

Those nights where Sherlock crawls into his bed are a quiet, well-hidden comfort, until it’s muffled cries in pillows, stains and bruises and red-kissed lips covered up before Mummy can see. Glances across the breakfast table. 

And they’re so very oblivious, their parents, everyone they meet, so dull and blind. Sometimes Mycroft mentally screams at them, the normal people, to see. To find out, because he can’t stop himself from feeling it, from wanting it. 

They never do. 

 

\---

 

The judges move to the middle of the room, and Mrs. Hudson says, “Congratulations, all three of you. We are taking a one and a half hour break, and then we’ll announce the winner in front of the castle and our audience outside.” She looks to the entrance, smiles, and says, “And I believe some people are arriving already!”

The camera pans out, and it’s Molly, walking into the tent in a colourful pink summer dress and matching hat, with right behind her a generously smiling Mike, then Henry, looking strangely put-together in a brown suit, then Sally and Anderson, and at the very end Angelo, who walks over to a surprised John and immediately pulls him into a hug, “John, how are you, my friend!” 

Sherlock dutifully greets Molly, Anderson mock-punches a disgruntled Jim in the shoulder, and the tent descends into a ‘so good to see you again, how have you been, so exciting’ chaos, all of them looking at the cakes and making predictions about who will win. 

Mycroft gets up. 

He uses the bathroom, splashes some water in his face, and pushes his hair down. Then adds a dab of cologne. He doesn’t want to look at his face, but he does scan his outfit critically. He loosens his wrist buttons, and evenly rolls up his sleeves over his forearms. He straightens his pocket square, attaches the chain of his pocket watch to his waistcoat, debates the merits of taking an umbrella versus blending in. 

When comes back into the room Molly is saying, “...asked to give this to you. I don’t know why, but she said you’d know?” She offers something to Sherlock; it’s a very small, sealed plastic bag, with green flakes inside. Some sort of herb, perhaps. 

Sherlock snatches the bag from her fingers, opens it and sniffs deeply, and then his whole face lights up, his eyes already scanning the room for his microscope. “Yes! Finally!” 

John watches him go with an understanding smile, then asks cautiously, “So she’s doing alright then, Soo Lin?” He looks at where Jim is standing, in the other corner of the marquee, and adds in quietly, “She’s safe?” 

“Oh yes, she can write me and then I have to get my letters to a special mailbox, it’s a bit complicated but we make it work. She has a kitten now, oh, it’s such a cute little thing! And she does have a job, although she can’t tell me what it is, she loves it, I think it must be somewhere warm because...” 

Mycroft turns the screens off. He could deal with Jim from afar, of course. There are plenty of agents mingling around the gathering crowd right now, sending him periodic updates. If something happens, if Sherlock or John are threatened in any way, if Jim tries anything at all, they will intervene. 

But Mycroft wants to be there. 

It’s only in the car that the knot of tension in his stomach builds. This is it, then. 

His driver has to drop him off by the entrance of the parking lot because it’s completely overrun. The normally peaceful castle grounds are now crawling with people who were invited to the final announcement, and Mycroft, annoyingly, has to make his way through them. Children are skipping through the grass, there’s the murmur of conversation and laughter, there is colourful bunting and flags, and tables set outside with the intent of eating the cakes once the winner has been announced. It’s all highly festive. 

Mycroft checks his phone every minute or so, glances at the screen as he walks. As he thought, nothing yet. Jim is waiting to make his move. He most likely does not even want to do it, Mycroft thinks. That’s the thing with blackmail: it’s all about the effect. It’s the power of a potential, undesirable future that makes everybody scramble to avoid it. It’s make the threat, and watch them all run in circles. Mycroft knows, he’s done it often enough himself. 

He curtly nods at an agent who is placed near the side of the castle, she taps her ear, and leads him through the castle, a back door, a hallway, and through another small door, then back outside. The marquee is in the distance, with yes, Jim on the phone, busily in conversation. 

Mycroft waves the agent off, presses a code of three numbers into his phone, then adds a voice command, and presses send. Several people, young, old, dressed in jeans and dresses, excited smiles or petulant scowls, in the middle of the crowd and on the edges, slowly, inconspicuously, straighten up and pay attention. Jim’s phone reception cuts off. 

Mycroft walks towards Jim, but he doesn’t hurry. 

Jim taps his phone, curses, then looks up and smirks from afar. “Mister Holmes, imagine that! My phone doesn’t seem to be working, you can’t help me with that, can you?” 

Jim looks shattered, Mycroft thinks. Dark rings under his eyes, he hasn’t been sleeping in days. He isn’t lying about one thing: he did genuinely bake to win, just now. Only perhaps he won’t, Mycroft thinks. He can’t be sure, but he can’t help but feel it. A slightly selfish thought, a creeping sense of righteousness. Sherlock’s cake looked better than Jim’s. It looked marvellous. 

“Come to negotiate before this goes sour?” 

“I could have you arrested, if I wanted to.” Mycroft says it casually, politely. “Sedated, killed perhaps, but then you already knew that.” 

Jim shrugs. “You won’t.” He looks around at his relative safety in numbers. He thinks he has won already. Perhaps he counted on Sherlock going against his demands, either way; it would be what he wanted. Either win himself, or get to pressure Mycroft that bit more. 

“Sherlock doesn’t care about your reputation or his own, _apparently_ , but you do, don’t you?” 

“I do.” The last thing Mycroft wants is Jim creating a spectacle right now, that much is true. But he won’t, not with this amount of security around them. 

Jim looks at him knowingly. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.” 

No, he would have come anyway, but Mycroft doesn’t acknowledge it. It goes against his every instinct, what he is about to say. “However, I have no desire to negotiate.”

Jim’s eyes narrow in consideration. “Don’t think I won’t do it.” 

Oh, Mycroft is sure he will. Gleefully, most likely. Cruelly. 

Jim sounds increasingly furious. “Don’t you underestimate me, _Mycroft_. I’ll have someone leak it online right now, I will ruin you, I will ruin all three of you...”

“Consider yourself free to release whatever information you wish.” Mycroft smiles cordially, turns his back, and starts walking. 

It’s not a relief. 

Mycroft can picture the reports already, in great, agonising detail. The grainy pictures, if they really do exist. 

He imagines the call made to Mummy, if Jim wants to go there, her horrified indignance, her calling Jim a liar. Dad’s little moment of maybe, but no, it can’t be true, not his boys. They won’t believe it, even now. 

He imagines his colleagues, their joy, finally, a humiliation they can hang him on, everyone at the Diogenes Club snickering into their teacups before they remember who he is, really. What he knows about them in return. It’ll probably make the worldwide news stream among a select group of people. Most will accept it for the truth it is immediately. It’s too outrageous not to be. 

Mycroft’s phone rings. Anthea. “Proceed as planned, sir?” She sounds completely professional, unaffected, although he’s set her up to work throughout the night by pulling this stunt. 

“Yes, continued maximum security on Jim, I think.” Mycroft isn’t sure what he might do, now. How far he will take this. 

“Of course.” She is already moving some forms around, tapping commands on her keyboard. “You are staying on location yourself?” 

Until the winner is announced, at least. “For now, yes.” 

“Understood.” Anthea relays the instructions, and then, before she ends the call, says, “Crossing my fingers for him, sir.” Mycroft hears the warm note in her voice. 

She might have been smiling. 

 

\---

 

Later, at uni, it’s late-night phone calls, Mycroft jerking himself off to Sherlock’s voice, Sherlock doing the same a hundred miles away. Some rare weekends together, Sherlock a lanky, teen shape against Mycroft’s broad back in a one person bed, whispers of love and sex in his ear, devastating in their intensity. 

The first time Sherlock fucks him, Sherlock comes well before Mycroft can but it doesn’t matter. Sherlock’s hard again twenty minutes later and he does it again, and again, eyes wild in his discovery, uses him greedily. And Mycroft lets him, wants him to, cries out with the breathlessness of it, the enormity of opening himself up, again and again, until he has no voice left, already knowing that he never wants to stop. 

Ever. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft moves towards the castle. 

There are cameras set up, filming the contestants and the crowd, as well. Mycroft tries to stay out of their direct line of sight, but still spots Sherlock and John easily, their heads close together. The sunshine is being dampened a bit by grey clouds gathering in the distance. Might be more rain coming. 

Jim reappears, too, smiling at them in a way that promises nothing good. Sherlock ignores him, but John is keeping a cautious eye out and angles himself between Jim and Sherlock at all times, Mycroft sees.

Mycroft has no intention of making his presence known unless it’s necessary, this close to the announcement. He doesn’t need to add any more stress to this for either of them, so he fully intends to just watch from afar, but curiously it’s John who scans the crowd and spots him. John smiles in surprise, and leans up to whisper it into Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock’s gaze shifts towards him immediately. He’s not surprised, necessarily, Mycroft thinks, but he does seem to like it. 

Sherlock looks back at Jim, frowns, then at Mycroft. He tilts his head, _you...?_

Mycroft nods briefly. _Yes, I did. Against all better judgement, brother mine._

Sherlock’s mouth opens and he grins, oh, he is pleased. Mycroft feels a flash of relief at that. He might detest all of this for himself, but Sherlock truly wanted it, he knows. He doesn’t understand why, necessarily, but the look on Sherlock’s face is enough. Mycroft smiles back. 

And then the sound system emits a sudden shriek, and there’s Lestrade, inexpertly tapping his microphone. 

“If our three finalists could come forward?” Well, this is it then. The moment of truth. 

Sherlock sends a tense look his way, and steps forward. John sends him a small smile. Mycroft wonders if there is anyone in the crowd for John, at all. He doesn’t seem to be looking at anyone else. 

“First of all, I would like to say: thank you for coming, guests, and supporting our bakers.” Mrs. Hudson seems much more at ease in front of a crowd than Lestrade does. Transferable skills, Mycroft supposes. He’s seen the file on her exotic dancing career. She smiles at all of them brightly, “The three of them have done phenomenally.”

Lestrade continues, “First, we have Jim,” Jim mock-startles, grins, and stands up a little taller, enjoys being the centre of attention, even now, “who is very strong technically, talented without a doubt, confident, and knowledgeable.” 

Mrs. Hudson takes over, “Second is John, who has been our most steady baker, who always gets to the essence of what makes something good, who has great intuition and a proficiency for flavour.” John smiles quietly. 

Lestrade again, “And last, there is Sherlock, who has had his ups and downs, but is extremely dedicated, inventive and original.” Sherlock just looks focused, now. 

Mycroft wonders if Sherlock expects to win. Or if he’s telling himself that it’s impossible that he will.

He deserves it the most, Mycroft thinks. Sherlock spent every second of every single hour on this competition, forwent sleep and food and everything else in favour of baking. Because that is who he is. Dangerously fanatical, passionate, above and beyond, always. But whether that is going to be enough... 

“All three of you have earned your place in the final. All three of you have worked incredibly hard. But in the end there can only be one.” Mrs. Hudson’s voice trembles for the first time. “And I’m very proud to announce that that person...” Mycroft startles slightly, he had expected more of a run-up, a recap of the judging perhaps, but no, they’re going straight to telling them.

John suddenly reaches for Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock takes it and squeezes it tightly.

“...the winner of the Great British Bake Off...” 

Mycroft looks at both Sherlock and John, sees them look back. 

”...is _Sherlock_ , congratulations!”

There’s a screech from Molly, clapping from the crowd, cheers, and pride slowly floods Mycroft’s chest. He knew it. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Oh, he deserves it so much. Somebody wants to hand Sherlock a bouquet of flowers and a trophy but he ignores them in favour of John, wraps his arms around him, John’s face fluttering with warring disappointment and happiness.

Mrs. Hudson is watching them, and when they let go she pulls Sherlock in herself. Mycroft can’t hear all she says, just catches “...so proud of you, dear...” and sees Sherlock’s face, his astonished look at being told that, that he’s that good, that he’s worth it, that he’s won. 

Mycroft forces himself to keep an eye on Jim, too, who is smiling thinly and accepting a handshake from Lestrade. His eyes are large and calculating on Sherlock’s vulnerable back. He looks murderous, Mycroft thinks. 

Lestrade speaks to the camera next, “Sherlock was fantastic. When he shines, he really shines, there’s only one baker like him, that raw talent, that creativity, that level of obsession, too, it’s rare. And with that last cake... he showed us that he could bake to an exceedingly high standard.” 

Jim is creeping back, moving himself out of the throng of well-wishers. Mycroft looks at one of his people, standing nearly directly behind Jim, and nods. Jim seems to trip, swoons just a little bit, and then is helped away so quickly and efficiently that, if Mycroft would not have been looking for it, would never have seen him leave. Good. 

Sherlock is still being hugged and congratulated from all sides, he hasn’t even noticed, but John, to his credit, has. 

Mycroft moves back himself. 

He goes to stand with his back to the castle wall, and settles in to wait for a while, and watch Sherlock. The way he doesn’t quite seem to know what to say into the camera when they interview him. The way his hand stays tightly clasped in John’s. And, also, the way his eyes flicker his way every couple of seconds, making sure he doesn’t leave. Mycroft doesn’t intend to, but still it’s flattering, to know that Sherlock cares whether he’s here. It feels monumental, now, this whole day. Sherlock is receiving congratulations from Lestrade, then Mike, then pretty much every other baker he knows.

They start cutting the cakes. Sherlock makes the first cut and then hands it over to an assistant who will divide up the pieces for everyone present. There are occasional gusts of wind rattling the cheerful decorations, lifting up the table cloths, having people hold on to their hats. They won’t be spared from rain much longer, Mycroft thinks. The one time he didn’t bring an umbrella, too, but he can’t bring himself to care, much. 

Sherlock won, and it fills him with a proprietary type of pleasure. Of course he’s the best. Of course. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock burns a vague pattern with acid on his left thigh that’s still there even today. Bites his cock hard enough once that there’s still a very faint white line. 

“I want to make more scars on you,” Sherlock says. He’s high, and it’s whispered urgently in the complete dark, body hot and sticky, sated but vibrating with tension, still. He’s been awake for days straight, can’t come down. “I want to carve you and make you into mine, I want your body to be nothing but me, your mind nothing but memories of me, Mycroft, do you understand?” 

And he did. 

He always did understand, Mycroft thinks. 

 

\---

 

It doesn’t take very long before Sherlock and John untangle themselves from the crowd of well-wishers and walk his way. 

Sherlock’s steps are big and fast, he’s striding, his face alight with victory, John right behind him. Mycroft takes that image and gladly locks it into his mind. This is it. This is how he wants to remember this day. Sherlock practically glowing with praise and acceptance, genius and talent, strikingly beautiful, quickly walking towards him, wanting to see him.

Mycroft intends to say congratulations, to express his pride and delight. But Sherlock walks up close, and Mycroft barely has time to smile before Sherlock comes too close, touches, and oh, embraces him. 

It’s completely unexpected, Sherlock briefly presses his lips to the side of his neck and then just holds him, presses his entire body against him. Mycroft can feel Sherlock radiating heat, and as he hesitantly puts his arms around him, too, Sherlock makes a soft sound of elation, and pulls him even tighter, until Mycroft stumbles a little under the assault and his back hits the wall, heart thudding in his chest. 

Sherlock whispers, “I won,” small and indulgent, and smiles, finally showing his real joy at it. 

Mycroft can’t help but smile back. _Oh, how I love you._ “You did.” 

John is looking between them indulgently. “Hello, Mycroft.” They have attracted the attention of a couple bystanders as well, looking on with varying expressions of interest. But it’s not inappropriate, Mycroft thinks, surely it isn’t, people do this sort of thing after a victory. Only it doesn’t feel like that to him, either, he can feel the press of Sherlock’s hips against his own still even though he has moved back enough to look at him, eyes shining with happiness. 

Mycroft feels slightly claustrophobic, Sherlock showing him affection, in public, in front of John, _eagerly_. 

But Sherlock just says, “He did it, John. He let Jim do it.” 

“You... sorry, what?!” John frowns at Mycroft. 

“It’s fine, I asked him to,” Sherlock says, voice a little tender. “I didn’t think you would.” 

And Sherlock looks so pleased with himself that Mycroft thinks that he might burst with it, so he says, “Congratulations,” then, looking at John, “I’m sorry it couldn’t have been both of you.” He’s surprised to find that he means that, too. 

John nods. Of course he wanted to win, but he seems at peace with it. “It’s fine,” he says. “I never figured I’d make it this far.” And then, “So, Jim...?”

“On his way to London.” In fact he’ll wake up tomorrow morning in his own bed, with an enormous hang-over. He’ll be free to spread whichever rumours he chooses then. If he still feels the urge to, which Mycroft thinks is incredibly generous, considering. He’s still not convinced it was advisable at all, but Sherlock... he did always love his grand gestures. And Mycroft will never forget this, either, he will take this moment home and treasure it. He wonders if Sherlock knows that. 

Sherlock smiles, but not as smugly as he would expect him to. In fact there is something a little quiet about it, Mycroft thinks, and says, “You’ll try our cake?” 

Mycroft remembers the gingerbread, baked in there so lovingly. He wants to taste it, of course he does, it would be a great shame not to eat the cake that gave Sherlock the win. But... he eyes John. He’s not sure this is the best idea. 

Sherlock looks at him. “Please?” 

Mycroft considers it. He can stand half an hour between the crowds if that means that it will make Sherlock happy, eat a piece, at least. Take the taste of it home with him as well. He is Sherlock’s brother, it even makes sense that he is here. “...of course.” 

Sherlock nods and starts walking towards the cakes, fully expecting them to follow. 

John looks at Mycroft, a little conspiratorially, “You know, that works on me, too, when he says please...” 

 

Sherlock avoids the pre-sliced pieces of cake that are standing ready for whoever wants some, but slices them another piece himself, takes great care on getting a perfectly even, large and round piece from the base of John’s tree-shaped wedding cake, puts it on a plate, and then takes a one from the lower tier of his own cake. He scrapes the sugar flowers aside, Mycroft sees. After all this, this still isn’t about decoration, to Sherlock. In a way it makes him feel glad. 

John takes three forks from a tray. 

A hesitant couple of drops start falling, and along with the rain they’re ambushed by Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and Molly. 

Mrs. Hudson smiles widely, “Mr. Holmes! I thought I saw you in the crowd there, how nice of you to come all this way out here for Sherlock.” 

Mycroft nods politely, she sees him regularly, of course, sometimes she invites him in for tea, which he takes care to refuse every single time. 

Then it’s on to Lestrade, “Ah, so it’s you that... you’re feeling better then?”

“I am, thank you.” Mycroft eyes Sherlock. How much of this does Sherlock expect him to fake? Surely he doesn’t need to have actual conversations with these people? 

Molly says, “You’re Sherlock’s brother? I can tell, you do kind of look alike...”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t look a thing like Sherlock, and he knows it. And yes, Sherlock’s protest is expected, “No, he doesn’t.” And then, for good measure, “Also, he’s gay, taken, and _my_ brother. Why don’t you date Lestrade, Molly, he’s a much better baker than Henry.” 

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson admonishes, Molly flushes, Lestrade looks at his feet, and Mycroft feels an odd bubble of discomfort at the sheer impropriety of Sherlock calling him _taken_. Although the notion of it is not... unpleasant. 

He meets Sherlock’s eyes. “I am afraid he is quite right, Miss Hooper.” 

Sherlock smiles smugly. 

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head, “I didn’t know you had someone, Mycroft! Sherlock never tells me any of these...”

“Yes, bye.” Sherlock takes Mycroft’s sleeve and pretty much drags him away, but Mycroft follows gladly, John behind. This is... awful. 

 

\---

 

Mycroft fingers the spaces between Sherlock’s ribs, the growing bruises around his veins. Holds him under heavy covers, breathes in his chemical, sickly sweet scent, lying tangled together in a steady progression of larger and more luxurious beds. He has money, now. It doesn’t change a thing. 

Sherlock wants to be hurt. He wants to be destroyed, taken apart, he challenges and threatens and insults and punishes him, more and more and Mycroft lets him rage, because that’s all he knows to do. 

Sherlock has forgotten most of it, Mycroft knows. What he did when high. That he left him with mottled bruises around his neck and bloodied lips, a broken arm once. But Mycroft never knew when to stop, either, when not to give in, so it didn’t matter much, then. Pain. 

He doesn’t think he ever said no. 

 

\---

 

They run into assistants coming out to start gathering up the cakes, and there’s a flurry of activity as people are moving inside, away from the rain. Some branches start swaying, the leaves on them fluttering audibly.

Sherlock leads them to the side of the castle, still grumbling. His hair waves in the wind. “We don’t look alike, why would she say that.”

“You always were the pretty one,” Mycroft offers. It’s true, of course, but also an old taunt between them. Something that would make Sherlock feel self-conscious, back then, although not anymore, Mycroft suspects, and he’s right. 

Sherlock only smirks at it, then turns to John. “He only says that because it makes him the smart one.” 

“Ah, but I am the smart one,” Mycroft replies, and this is so familiar that it’s highly enjoyable, the fact that he gets to _say_ this to Sherlock again... He just about expects Sherlock to jam an éclair into his mouth and tell him to shut up.

They’re close to the entrance of the dining room, but they can’t actually go anywhere without people looking at Sherlock and wanting to talk to him, the downside of being the winner, Mycroft supposes. He wonders if Sherlock expects them to eat this cake standing up behind a wall in the rain, like having a secret smoke. 

Another gust of wind, and there’s a roll of thunder in the distance, a faint flash of lightning, and the rain starts picking up. 

“Maybe my room?” John suggests, and Sherlock nods and changes course. 

Mycroft wants to protest, John’s bedroom, surely that’s going to have some rather obvious connotations, but the rain increases, he can feel cold drops on his face now. There’s another flash of lightning, and, faster this time, thunder. So they hurry, but not as much as Sherlock usually would, Mycroft notes, he’s being mindful of John’s pace, and they make it to the beginning of John’s hallway just in time before it starts pouring down. 

Mycroft wipes the cool drops from his face. This hallway is much quieter than outside, and John walks first to open his door. 

John’s bedroom looks bigger than it did on his screens. There’s a single chair in the room, and the bed in the middle. John puts his cane aside and lowers himself down on the bed with a sigh, stretches his leg out in front of him, then says, “So, beauty and brains, what does that make me, the muscle?” he’s obviously joking. 

Mycroft chooses the chair. He doesn’t belong here, he’s aware. However few nights they’ve spent here, this is theirs, not his. Sherlock sits down next to John, plate of cake on his lap, and says, achingly honestly, “John, you must know, you’re... You...” Then looks up with a pleading expression. 

Mycroft knows what Sherlock’s trying to say, so he adds it, quietly, “You are extraordinary.” Sherlock glances at him gratefully. 

Mycroft remembers John’s skill at simple flattery. Often people long for the type of praise they give themselves, so he adds, “I agree, John.” a rare compliment of his own. 

John looks at him with something of a curious expression. “Um... that’s, thank you?” But he doesn’t seem too embarrassed, the opposite, really. He first hands Sherlock, then Mycroft a fork, then takes one of the plates, and holds it out so that Mycroft can reach it. 

Mycroft does as requested, slices a small piece from John’s (truly beautiful, well-constructed, although mildly rained upon) tree cake. He briefly smells it. An aroma of soft vanilla, a hint of Bailey’s and chocolate. Then tastes. It’s gentle, the structure crumbles on his tongue. Sweet, but not overwhelming. Mycroft could tell that this is not Sherlock’s work with his eyes closed, and that’s interesting in itself. The Bailey’s adds some warmth, the vanilla a rewarding, full taste, and then at the very end there is the soft, fresh tang of apricot. 

He could eat a lot of this, Mycroft thinks, large pieces, let them fill him up with comfort. “Great flavour,” he says to John. It has a gentleness, it’s definite in what it wants to be, but a bit of a dream. Mycroft thinks at what Mrs. Hudson said, _nostalgia_. Is this what the Bake Off was to John? Mycroft looks at him, and thinks of a way to word that into a question, but he can’t, not quite. 

John is presenting his cake to Sherlock as well, who takes his time selecting a piece, and then very cautiously takes it off the fork and into his mouth. Eating for Sherlock is never about pleasure, Mycroft knows, he either dissects the flavours or ignores them. But this is interest; he can see the process of tasting it in Sherlock’s face. The apricots, he must have already understood that, judging from his fond look to John, the softness, the sweetness. It’s practically a love letter in cake form, and Sherlock knows it. He touches the back of his fingers to John’s hand, and softly moves them in thanks. 

John looks down, and smiles. 

There’s some hail now, a couple loud thwacks against the windows, and then more and more as if they’re being thrown enthusiastically. The sound is drowning out anything else, but Mycroft is glad for it. It means they don’t need to keep up a conversation, right now. He’s not sure that he can think of a single appropriate thing to say. And, yes, Sherlock looks at him, impatiently. He needs to taste his. 

Sherlock’s cake looks beautiful, and it will taste like it, too, Mycroft’s certain. He won’t be able to taste it the way he’d want to, of course, not with John here. Mycroft’s knees are nearly touching John’s leg. He has no place here, he reminds himself. Or not like that, anyway. 

He leans forward, puts his fork to Sherlock’s cake, presses down very carefully so that he has a bit of every layer, cups his hand under his fork so that it doesn’t fall off, and brings it to his lips. It has less of an aromatic smell than John’s, but what is there is tantalising, white chocolate, a hint of cardamom. 

Sherlock breathes in along with him, then says “I hope you’ll love it.” It sounds honest. 

Mycroft looks at him. _I always do._

He puts it in between his lips, and his first impression is cream, airy, soft, obvious sweetness. There is no holding back here, it’s indulgent and lush and it’s meant to be. It fills his mouth, and when he licks it away there is the crumble of meringue, a little bit of gingerbread and yes, it is the exact recipe from before, Mycroft could recognise that taste anywhere. Still it feels different, too, with orange added to it, with honey. It’s sweetened almost painfully. Mycroft bites down, crushes the meringue between his teeth, feels it linger there. Sherlock is staring at him, quiet with anticipation. 

Once he’s swallowed, Mycroft immediately wants more. He wants Sherlock to put mouthfuls of this to his face, but the taste is still blooming in his mouth, it feels like something unfinished but gorgeous, unique, wrapped in clouds of something soft... Oh, John, of course, Mycroft realises. He had only understood the gingerbread, but this has very clearly both of them in there. John _and_ him. He looks at Sherlock’s hand, still touching John’s. Sherlock baked both of them in here. 

“Spectacular,” Mycroft says. It comes out dark, but he doesn’t care. It is. 

Sherlock’s eyes linger on his, then dance over his face and mouth, flicker down. Mycroft knows that it must be written all over him. The thought of what they might do with that cake. What might happen if he would lean over right now, John be damned. 

The hail tapers off and makes place for heavy rain, hard streams of it rolling off the windows, and John breaks the moment by taking his fork and, after a look to Sherlock, tasting as well. Sherlock shifts his focus to him, and Mycroft does, too, grateful for the distraction. John puts a bit of Sherlock’s cake in his mouth, and closes his eyes. 

John’s jaw moves as he tastes. He licks his lips, they are reddish and shiny with cream. 

John’s eyelashes flutter, he smiles at the taste, swallows languidly. Then says, “Hmm, delicious.”

Mycroft wonders if John knows what he’s doing, because this is practically pornographic. He moves uncomfortably on his chair. Sherlock bites his lip.

But no, John’s voice has a hint of warmth, but nothing daring to it, as he says, “That’s wonderful, Sherlock. It’s really unusual, the texture of it, the way it’s put together...” John shakes his head, “I really don’t know anyone but you who could make this, it’s fantastic.” 

“Hm,” Sherlock says, pleased, a bit turned on, and Mycroft secretly agrees. Can John not see this? Or is he just ignoring it out of courtesy, until he is gone? 

John takes his plate, and holds it out to Mycroft again. 

Mycroft takes a piece before he’s really thought it through, puts it into his mouth and smashes it between his teeth, enjoys having it on the back of his tongue and swallowing it near-whole, eating without thinking about it. He looks at Sherlock again. There’s still a lot of cake left but he could eat it all like this, he thinks. Quick, in a rush of sugar and light. Greedy. 

He hasn’t in a long time. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock would love him fat again. Mycroft doesn’t have to guess to know that. 

More than just the eating, the tasting, Sherlock always loved the expanse of him, the physical evidence of his bulk lying next to him, aroused and naked, covered in crumbs and chocolate. His body as a glorious indulgence.

And maybe he will, Mycroft thinks. If he keeps eating like this, he’ll inevitably grow heavier until he’s fat and bloated and the thought is strangely fascinating. How big, what would be enough? Does he want it? 

Again. 

 

\---

 

John takes some of his own cake on his fork, says, “Right, one for you?” and playfully holds it to Sherlock’s mouth.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. Well, go John. 

Sherlock eyes Mycroft briefly. He obediently opens his mouth and takes the piece, eats it, but then says, “That’s really more Mycroft’s area.”

“Sherlock, seriously!” Mycroft feels somewhat insulted, surely they don’t have to actually say that in front of John! But then he reassesses Sherlock’s tone, sees his face. He was actually just trying to be informative, Mycroft realises. He was trying to tell John that he doesn’t care about food that way, not to feed him like that and expect him to enjoy it. 

John is looking at him with interest. “So it’s you, who...?” He holds up his fork, “You like that?” 

“He does,” Sherlock says, something warm there. Pride, knowledge. 

Mycroft feels exposed even saying this much, but John nods as if he expected as much, and takes it in stride. “All right.” Then takes his fork, and, oh, shuffles down the bed a bit so that he’s closer, puts a piece on it and holds it out, just like he did to Sherlock. 

Mycroft freezes. 

Sherlock is looking between them, a little shocked but instantly intrigued, he would _love_ to see this, Mycroft thinks. Of course he would. 

But John has no idea what it is he’s offering, exactly. How could he? 

Mycroft wonders if he needs to refuse, and how to do it politely. He considers it, but it’s only a fork, put to his mouth. John is not getting anything from this, he’s simply giving it to him, making a gesture, perhaps trying to understand the concept. So Mycroft opens his mouth and accepts the bite of cake. It doesn’t feel nearly as intimate as when Sherlock does, because it isn’t. He waits for the wave of unease to hit him, the sweetness in his mouth to turn unpleasant. John is watching him, John gave this to him, it should feel wrong, but it doesn’t come. It feels perfectly safe. John seems satisfied, Sherlock is looking between at both of them with a stunned look of intrigue, and Mycroft can relate, but it’s fine. 

John is leaning back now, done with his little experiment, smiling at Sherlock in the knowledge that he surprised him. 

Mycroft suddenly wonders if this is foreplay. If _he_ is. 

The thought, unreasonably, angers him enough that he swallows John’s cake quickly, and tries to untangle himself from this calm, pleasant feeling connecting the three of them. The aftertaste of carefully crafted food in his mouth. Sherlock’s eyes, intrigued but bare, vulnerable enough to worry him. His own arousal, the potential of this moment, ebbing and flowing darkly in the back of his mind. 

This is not just about cake, and they all know it. 

Sherlock leans closer to John, takes some of his own cake on a fork, kisses John on the cheek, a soft, wet kiss, and puts the piece to John’s lips. John looks at Sherlock, opens his mouth, and lets Sherlock softly push the fork inside, then closes his lips so that Sherlock has to pull it back between them. Mycroft can barely watch it. This is titillating, and he can’t help but feel it. Worse, Sherlock knows so, and John does, too. Sherlock looks at him with uncertainty, he doesn’t quite know what to do either, what is right and what is crossing the line. But arousal, interest, he doesn’t want it to stop. 

John swallows, eyes the cake again, then Mycroft, he’s quite obviously trying to figure out what comes next. Rain is rushing on the window. 

Sherlock’s practically sitting on top of John now, his knees nearly touching Mycroft’s, looking at him, transfixed, and orders, “Feed him again, John.”

Some of Mycroft’s muscles are giving in at the sound of Sherlock’s voice alone, at the idea, he wants to lean back and just let them, both of them, feel their fingers on his face, both of them pressing food to his lips... but he is aware enough to know that this is spinning out of control, and quickly. Sherlock’s love for John is so new. His own connection with Sherlock is so fraught. It feels too tense, too much. This is a wild freefall and there is no way that this is not going to end up in disaster. 

So Mycroft says, quietly. “Sherlock, please think about this.” He meets John’s eyes. “John, you, too.” It takes more to say that than he thought it would. 

John nods, takes a moment, looks at Sherlock. “Yes, I know. I’m okay with... Yes.” 

Sherlock looks at John, something complicated in his face, but it’s slowly turning grateful, _“John!”_

John smiles kindly. “I mean, if you want me here.” Sherlock shakes his head in joy, leans forward, takes John’s face between his hands, and kisses him enthusiastically, as if it’s a great idea, as if John is the most amazing thing he has ever encountered. John laughs into their kiss, and Mycroft feels something tense gather in his stomach. Jealousy, perhaps. 

Eventually Sherlock moves back from John, both of them smiling, then looks at Mycroft, swallows, and all of a sudden he’s determined for this, too. Mycroft knows that look so well that he gets up without thinking, Sherlock moves forward, and yes, _finally_. 

Mycroft tangles his fingers in Sherlock’s wild hair, puts his hips against his, feels Sherlock’s inhale against his lips. His heart is hammering in his chest as he pulls Sherlock in, thinks _mine, too_ as he kisses him. Sherlock groans at it and it’s glorious, they’re both kissing as if they only have a minute to do it in, the kiss Sherlock wanted to give him, Mycroft knows, the one he’s been wanting to give him since he saw him in the crowd, since he realised what he did. It’s thank you and victory and this cake and this day, this whole, enormous shift of a day. 

When they break apart, they’re both out of breath, and Sherlock is still holding on to him, rather tight, doesn’t seem to plan on letting him go and so is Mycroft, his hands are tight on Sherlock’s shoulders. He’s aware he’s flushed, himself. 

John says, voice low with arousal, “You know, the two of you are very, ah... God, you should see that,” and Mycroft doesn’t know what to say, guilt, wishing John gone, wishing himself gone, it feels detrimental either way. 

But Sherlock simply says, “Yes, we are,” as if he’s a little shy, a tad proud of it, too, and Mycroft feels that hit him. 

He already knew he wouldn’t say no, after all. He knew that from the moment he entered this room, from the moment Sherlock left him, last week, shivering with a plate of half-eaten petit fours on his desk, that he would take _anything_. 

And this is it. 

 

\---

 

Even now, he only has to close his eyes to remember. Memories sweetened by time, by contrast. The good days. 

Because all the pain aside, they had years of talking and joking, arguing and eating and sex, being _afire_ with it, and Sherlock, Mycroft thinks, always Sherlock, looking at him as if he was all he wanted to see, as if he was the most interesting thing on the planet. Sherlock’s obvious pleasure at getting to have him, every single bit of him, and Mycroft’s love back at him. 

Still it was heartbreaking and it was never free, it was never enough, it was never allowed to just be. 

But now it could be. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock pulls Mycroft with him, to the bed, and Mycroft sinks back on it. 

John touches Sherlock, kisses him with soft kisses peppered over his face, then more intense as Sherlock puts a hand between John’s legs that makes him groan. 

Mycroft watches it, skin feeling a little numb, his chest as well. He’s not sure he can do this, with John here. He will, of course, it’s so much better than nothing, it’s a gift and he will not refuse it, but he’s not sure on how. How to watch them, and not wish that it was him there, instead. Sherlock reaches out a hand and holds his arm, too, while kissing John, four pinpricks of heat and it anchors him enough that he can feel that, at least. 

After a while they stop. John is hard, Mycroft can see with some detached interest. Should he touch John as well? Does he want to? Sherlock takes some cake on his finger, and brings it to him, orders, “Taste,” and he’s right, the sugar burns through the distant feeling. The honey, the gingerbread, the cream. Sherlock feeds him another bite, and another and Mycroft drifts on it, licks Sherlock’s fingers, makes them wet with his spit, his mouth soft and pliable. Watches Sherlock, sees him falter and swallow while John looks on between them. 

Eventually it’s Sherlock’s push that has him falling back on the bed, crawling up it, Sherlock over him. Sherlock leans close and doesn’t kiss him as much as licks over his lips, traces his tongue over the contours of his mouth, rubs his clothed erection to his side. There’s something reverent in the way he angles his face towards him and just _tastes_ him, and Mycroft feels himself spread out with joy under it. This, to have this, again. John holds out the plate so Sherlock can take more, hold it to his lips and Mycroft takes it into his mouth and swallows, lying back, lets it overwhelm him. 

And then, more cake, Sherlock’s fingers, John’s in his mouth, Mycroft leans over and John is there and he allows him to kiss him, too. 

It’s very different from Sherlock in that it doesn’t slice through him, or thrill him, it’s just there, John’s lips, moving against his, his tongue, gently probing. But John’s body is wonderfully sturdy against his own and the best of it is Sherlock’s reaction, greedily grabbing Mycroft’s hip, John’s hand, saying “Oh...” as he watches them, then falls silent. 

Mycroft opens his eyes to glance over and check that Sherlock is really alright with this, they can stop, of course, but Sherlock is looking at them avidly, he has a hand between his own legs, he’s unashamedly teasing himself while looking at them kiss, and the sight is enough to make Mycroft stop. 

“Jesus, Sherlock...” John says, something of a tremble to his voice, and Sherlock undoes the buttons of his own trousers, pushes them down quickly, then his pants. Then it’s enough of a tangle that he has to sit back down, and it’s nearly absurd, Sherlock’s cock rising hard and eager between his legs, his look of annoyance at the fact that he is still wearing shoes and socks and that his trousers are stuck around his knees. 

Mycroft feels a smile tug on the corner of his mouth, not knowing where it came from, but Sherlock sees and returns it. John rises up on his knees to Sherlock but doesn’t quite make it there, a brief stumble and a flash of pain on his face.

So Mycroft reaches out and pulls Sherlock in, meets his still smiling lips briefly, then pushes him over to John, surprised at himself, that he can, apparently, do that. Watch Sherlock settle on top of John with a contented sound, John’s hand wrap around Sherlock’s cock and stroke him while they kiss, while Sherlock moans into John’s mouth and eagerly moves over him. 

Mycroft’s erection is pushing hard between his legs, too. His suit is wrinkled beyond belief and has crumbs on it and bits of meringue. His lips are swollen and his throat feels full, his mouth tastes like nothing but cake and kissing. And it’s so much more immediate than watching through the screens, uncomfortable, to lie here on this bed. He listens to the wet sounds of their kissing, hears Sherlock’s breaths and sees his still clothed back, tempting naked arse and the dip just by his spine, the way his hand is curled around John’s jaw. Then Sherlock’s other hand reaches out and touches him, too. Blindly traces his face, settles over his lips and between them and Mycroft kisses his fingers for him, sucks them, and knows Sherlock is moaning for both of them now. Treasures the wild, soft thing he feels in his chest at the sound. 

After a while Sherlock stops kissing John, looks up at him, face flushed, touches his wet fingers to his face, says, “Your mouth, I...?” 

And Mycroft swallows, breath catching at the thought alone. He thinks _you never used to ask permission_ , but nods. Of course. 

Sherlock moves away from John, who is looking between them with interest, and crawls over Mycroft’s chest in a practiced move, one knee on either side. Sherlock takes his cock in hand, leans forward, and then touches the head of it to Mycroft’s lips, drags it over them.

Mycroft groans and his mouth waters, he can _smell_ him, god, yes. 

He opens his mouth, feels the faint slick of a drop of pre-come spreading over his lips. Then tastes it with the tip of his tongue. 

He takes the smooth, warm head between his lips, licks it with a fluttering tongue, and Sherlock pulls out, pushes himself back in again, breath hitching with pleasure. He’s holding back, simply teasing himself into Mycroft’s mouth, Mycroft can feel it in his movements, just a trace, a little, not too much on every slight back and forth. He’s probably watching John while doing this, Mycroft thinks and he loves that, the idea of what this must look like, to John, how decadent it is, what it truly means. But he wants more than that, more than just the teasing, so he angles his neck, and moves to get him deeper into his mouth. 

Sherlock stumbles a bit, loses his rhythm, so Mycroft reaches out, puts his hands over Sherlock’s arse, and tries to pull him towards him, urges him, yes, go ahead, this, please. 

Sherlock groans at that, the bed dips and then John’s hands are there, too, on Sherlock’s hips, next to Mycroft’s, keeping him steady, and Sherlock can angle himself in and out slowly now. Mycroft breathes through his nose, swallows the spit when it gathers in his mouth, keeps his lips open and relaxed, feels Sherlock glide deep into his mouth. They have done this often and yet it feels even more intense than Mycroft remembers, he’s not guiding this at all, Sherlock is, he’s simply opening himself up and the thought of that is enough to thrill him. He knows he’s hard and straining for it himself but it’s almost a detail to the hard fullness of Sherlock’s cock sliding over his tongue down to his throat, filling his mouth. The edge of Sherlock’s belly is reaching his nose, his jaw is aching from being held open like that, his neck is cramping, his throat has that hot, used feeling. 

Sherlock moves back a bit, back to having just the tip there, and he’s close now, Mycroft can taste it, pre-come suddenly leaking bitter on the back of his tongue. Then John’s hand is there, around the base of Sherlock’s cock, jerking him off. Sherlock makes noise at that, a soft, repeating, “oh...”, that makes Mycroft feel greedy, so he sucks all the way to John’s fingers, takes Sherlock deep in his throat and swallows around him, then lets him go. _You better come in my mouth._ He hears John’s surprised breath at that, Sherlock’s long moan, oh, he knows. John’s hand squeezes and moves back and forth, bangs into his lips on every pass. And yes, yes, Mycroft tenses along with him, Sherlock comes in a gush of wet and warm all over his lips, Mycroft tries to take it all into his mouth but John’s fingers are there, too, so some of it runs off his chin and sinks onto his neck while Sherlock trembles above him. 

John mumbles, “Amazing,” and then seems surprised at himself for having said it. Mycroft looks up at Sherlock, sees him in a blur through his eyelashes, and sucks gently, now, lets him come down. Then just makes his mouth soft and loose, for as long Sherlock wants it, feels him go softer on his tongue. 

When Sherlock slides off his chest Mycroft realises how constricting that angle was to his breathing, his vision is woozy, his neck aching so he sits up as well and takes a couple deep breaths. He moves his head, touches his throat and swallows carefully, he’s going to feel this for days. “You alright?” John asks, thoughtfully, and Mycroft nods. Of course. 

He wipes his face with the back of his hand, smooth, slimy come on the corner of his mouth, wet spit, some crumbs, he doesn’t know what he looks like but Sherlock’s look says enough, pure, utter adoration. 

“Mycroft...” Sherlock says, and then, quietly, “You…” and kisses him. Mycroft’s mouth feels numb, overused, but he doesn’t care, lets Sherlock taste himself on his tongue, lets him push. 

 

\---

 

And in the end, Sherlock succeeded because Mycroft’s body is nothing _but_ him, Mycroft thinks, and so is his heart. 

Memories of his every touch, and taste. Desolation and self-hate, lush love and overreaching care. Too much or too little, wrong but always real, so defining, glorious, grand, and Mycroft doesn’t mind, anymore. 

It’s a blissful accomplishment, it’s not a hollowing out but it’s a giving of self, he will jump, he will let go, follow this wherever it needs to go, and love him. Love Sherlock. 

Because that’s all he ever wanted to do. 

 

\---

 

John’s there, too, behind Sherlock’s shoulder, and Mycroft is almost confused to see that he is still dressed, completely, that John hasn’t done much at all and neither has he, really. 

Sherlock looks at both of them, takes in the moment of uncertainty, and offers, “John, you can fuck Mycroft, he loves that.” 

John frowns. “Sherlock.” He sounds indignant. “You can’t just...” 

But he can. Mycroft thinks about it. John, pushing into him. Sherlock looking on. “You may, John, if you wish.” 

John looks him over. “Really?” 

“Yes.” It’s not a difficult decision, out of anything to give to John this is hardly the most significant, Mycroft thinks. He puts his hands on his trouser buttons, intends to open them, but he stills as he feels the angle of his own hip bone underneath. He knows what he looks like. The loose skin of his belly, the emptiness of his upper thighs, his buttocks. “Although I am afraid I’m not very appealing.” Could he really expect John to want him, at all? Maybe if he keeps his clothes on. 

John is still looking at him, “No, I’d love to...” he smiles a little rakishly, “If you’re sure.”

Sherlock pushes Mycroft’s hands away and starts undoing the buttons himself. Mycroft lets him. Of course. Sherlock turns to John, says, “You can have this now.” As if it’s a brilliant idea, a personal recommendation, look what I got for you, someone to fuck, yet his touch is gentle, helping him, and Mycroft can feel his meaning in there. 

John takes his own trousers and shoes off but leaves his shirt, Mycroft sees, so he does as well, feeling slightly ungainly with the bottom of his shirt and waistcoat brushing his erection, thin, pale legs poking out from underneath. Sherlock pushes him back again, makes sure his head is on a pillow, while John makes a little detour to his bag for lube and a condom. 

Mycroft’s not surprised that John has brought either with him, but knowing Sherlock and what he assumes about John, he’s fairly certain that they haven’t used either. He’s right, both the lube and packet of condoms have never been opened. John seems to have no qualms about it, though, he’s fully hard, has been for a while, opens the packet and places a condom on the bed. Sherlock’s looking smug, pleased at his own idea, the fact that both of them agreed to it, too, Mycroft thinks. Sherlock kisses John, puts a hand on Mycroft’s leg and runs his fingers to his cock at the same time, and Mycroft twitches from just that, it’s the first time he’s touched him there, today. John opens the lube, which Sherlock immediately takes from him. He always was like that, and looking at him now, Mycroft can tell that he’s enjoying this immensely, the idea of preparing him for John. 

Sherlock puts some lube on his fingers, leans down, presses a finger to his entrance, then takes him into his mouth at the same time and Mycroft just breathes through the shock of pleasure, the manipulation of his body, Sherlock’s knowledgeable touch. He clenches around Sherlock’s fingers as they find his prostate, feels his whole body shiver, skin raise into goose bumps. 

John steps close and strokes himself, hand moving slowly on his erection. His eyes are warm, Mycroft sees. He’s enjoying watching them. 

After a while Sherlock looks up, keeps his fingers inside of Mycroft; three, now, pulls John closer, then sucks him while John lets his hands fall away. Mycroft’s cock is glistering wet with Sherlock’s spit and rises up on its own to Sherlock’s pressure inside of him. Sherlock is making soft pleased sounds around John’s cock. John’s eyes are closed, face tilted upwards, but then as Mycroft breathes a small involuntary gasp of want, John opens them, and looks at him. 

It’s surprisingly thrilling, looking at each other like that, knowing what is happening to both of them. John has Sherlock’s black head of curls between his legs, Mycroft has his fingers. If Sherlock would keep going he could probably drift on the tension of this, Mycroft thinks, the wave of pleasure rolling through him every time Sherlock hits his prostate, even just the idea is deeply erotic. 

But eventually John groans and puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, says, “You should stop, if I...” Then looks at him and Mycroft thinks ‘He’s going to fuck me. He’s going to get off on it, he’s going to come inside me while Sherlock watches.’ And he wants this, too, he realises. He genuinely wants this to happen. 

Sherlock pulls his fingers out, John opens the condom, puts it over his erection, then looks at him, waits for permission. “Yes, John,” Mycroft says again, a little impatiently, really doesn’t need this much consideration. John moves closer, crawls between Mycroft’s legs, aligns himself, and, with one more look, pushes in carefully. Mycroft just breathes, feels the unfamiliar shape of John through the condom, shorter, wider than Sherlock. John takes it slow at first, his thrusts are different, uneven, oh, of course his leg, but steady. Mycroft can see John’s muscles working, his eyes on him, checking whether he likes it, whether it’s good, what he’s doing. He speeds up, goes deeper, he experiments with what makes Mycroft breathe faster and close his eyes. He’s definitely done this before, Mycroft thinks, shaking from the thrill of it, many times, probably. 

Sherlock crawls over the bed as well, moves around John to get a good view. Then leans in with a grin, and yes, Mycroft gets what he’s planning to do at about the same time John does, and they both look as he leans down, puts John’s hand on his head, and takes Mycroft’s cock into his mouth, sighing blissfully. 

John groans at the image alone, and it’s instantly overpoweringly good. Mycroft has never had both at once and it makes it hard to focus, the knowledge that this is Sherlock’s hot mouth over him, John moving inside him, filling him up. He knows straight away he’s going to come like this if it goes on, it’s overwhelming, this bright, slick wave of it. 

So he says “Sherlock,” his voice sounding strange to his own ears, high, and he has to pull Sherlock away but he does come up and kisses him warmly, lips slick with spit. Mycroft can feel Sherlock wrapping a hand around his erection, he opens his mouth under Sherlock’s, holds onto Sherlock’s shoulders, and yes, John hits his prostate nearly every time now. John is breathing loudly too, a harsh gust of sound at every thrust. 

Mycroft shivers and Sherlock must be able to tell that he is very close; he slows his hand down, stops kissing him, just looks him in the eyes. He holds him on the edge for another thrust, one more, while Mycroft breathes and twitches, Sherlock just holds his cock tight, looks at him, runs his thumb over the head in small circles, smiling expectantly, and it’s so good, it’s unbelievable. And then just as he threatens to spill over like that, Sherlock tightens his grip, says, “John!” and makes it hard and intense while John slams into him, and Mycroft comes, spasming around John’s cock, Sherlock’s breaths mingling with his, hot and eager. Sherlock always loved to make him come, Mycroft knows, to distil that moment, Sherlock always... 

John slows down with obvious effort, can’t quite keep himself from moving a little, anyway, small, shivering thrusts, and asks, “What, um, do you want...?” 

Sherlock answers, surprisingly steady-sounding, “Keep going, John, as hard as you want,” and he’s right, Mycroft never minded that. It feels less intense after coming himself, but just the knowledge of it, of being stretched and filled, of being used. Mycroft moves his hips to meet John’s thrusts, to reassure him that yes, he can, and earns him a moan, so he does it again. 

Sherlock goes to John, kisses him deeply, then tangles a leg around John’s lower back and lies back down so that John can feel both of them, look at both of them. 

John’s hand reaches out and Sherlock catches it, holds him up as his hips stutter in and out, quickly. John’s face is flushed now, his mouth opened in a round shape, of nearly, so nearly. “Yes,” Mycroft says, feeling caught in it, too, he moves himself down over John’s cock on every stroke as deep as he can, and Sherlock pulls John in, says ‘Yes, John, yes, come.” 

John slams his hips, and then, yes, cries out, “Aaaah!”, and sinks forward, body half over Mycroft, his face on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Sherlock kisses John’s cheek, briefly, then lets him breathe. 

John is heavy, lying turned on top of Mycroft, John’s cock is still inside of him but slowly being pushed out as he grows softer. John wants to move back, Mycroft can tell, but he can’t quite, so Mycroft moves himself from under him, and gives John space to lie down. He does, eyes closed, breathing hard, but he doesn’t seem to relax. Mycroft wonders if he hurt himself. 

Sherlock gets up, looks at his shirt as if he’s only now realised that he was still wearing it, unbuttons it, and throws it to the side. Mycroft stands up on weak legs as well, aware of the lube still slick between his legs, his stained clothes. There’s no bathroom here, he knows. But he has no intention of going into the hallway looking like this, either. 

Sherlock takes a towel of John’s, a bottle of water and wets it, cleans himself haphazardly, goes over to John, takes the condom and throws it away, wipes him, then gives the towel to Mycroft. Mycroft uses it to clean himself off, feeling strangely unaffected by dragging a wet towel between his thighs and arse cheeks in front of both of them. Normally he’d be affronted doing something like this, sharing a towel, he knows it’s crude. But John isn’t even looking at him and Sherlock has seen much worse, Mycroft knows, it won’t even register to him. He dries off, then takes the bottle of water and has a drink, the coolness a balm to his throat. Hands it over to Sherlock who drinks deeply, then gives it to John, who is still looking oddly tense and quiet as he takes a drink. He’s obviously in pain, now, he must have hurt his leg at the end there.

Sherlock eyes John uncertainly, worriedly, not sure what to ask or what to do, Mycroft sees. He considers. He knows where the pills are, he’s seen John take them, so he goes to John’s bag, opens it, takes out two, then hands them to him. If John’s going to be uncomfortable about this, it might as well be directed at him, Mycroft thinks. John frowns at him, “How...?” but he does take them. 

“You shouldn’t do that on your knees, John.” Mycroft says, surprised that his voice even works, still, never mind that his words come out sounding perfectly normal. 

John grimaces. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I actually forgot, for a bit there. I forgot that I can’t. That...” His gaze softens. “Well, fuck it, it was worth it.” 

Mycroft understands that. That sometimes it doesn’t matter, how much pain there is, as long as you can have it. He nods. Sherlock is still looking at John a little helplessly, then pulls the covers from underneath him, causing John to have to move, and spreads them over him in some gesture of comfort. John smiles at that briefly. Sherlock crawls in himself, next to John, although he’s careful not to lie on top of him, or jostle him too much, and looks at Mycroft.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. Cuddling. Really. He can certainly refuse this, he knows. But Sherlock is looking at him impatiently, clearly expects him to join. Mycroft sighs, sits down on the bed, next to Sherlock, and lies down again. Sherlock pulls the sheet over all three of them. He makes a sound of contentment, and immediately pulls him closer, bony arms and ribs and shoulders, then settles with his hard, surprisingly heavy, head on Mycroft’s chest, and takes his hand and tangles their fingers together. 

Mycroft remembers this, too. His other hand drifts towards Sherlock’s hair instantly, and he touches it, gently. 

Odd how easily this comes back to him. 

Mycroft glances at John, who is getting a more relaxed look, and is looking at Sherlock fondly. Or actually, both of them, Mycroft sees. John reaches his hand out as well, and softly traces his fingers over Sherlock’s. Finds Sherlock’s scars and burns and calluses. Mycroft has none of those, but after a moment John touches him as well, a little hesitantly. 

It’s stopped raining outside. It’s quiet, aside from the occasional far-away rumble of thunder. 

The muscles in Mycroft’s thighs are sore from John. His throat is still aching from Sherlock. Sherlock’s head is uncomfortable on his breastbone. His heart is still beating fast. The sheet feels crisp around his naked legs. 

He should feel ill at ease, perhaps, but instead every breath with Sherlock so demonstratively on top of him, with John gently looking at them, feels like something painfully tender. 

They’re quiet for a long while. 

Mycroft doesn’t sleep, none of them do. But he does drift, lets the feeling sink into the bed. Affection. Fear. Hope, too. 

Maybe hope, mainly.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
